NEVADA 


II 


BOSTON: 
M.    BAKER   &   CO., 


GEORGE 

No.47  Franklin  Street. 


Copyright,  18TG,  by  GEORGE  M.  BAKKR. 

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OUR  FOLKS.    3  Acts.     Price  15  cts. 
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PRICE,   15   CENTS   EACH.      09-  No  Plays  Exchanged. 


ST  IN  LONDON.    A  Drama  in  3  Acts, 
male,  4  female  characters. 
CHOIiAS    FLAM.   A  Comedy  in  2  Acto. 
y  J.  B.  Buckstone.   5  male,  3  female  char. 
[E  WELSH  GIF.L.    A  Comedy  in  1  Act. 
y  Mrs.  Planche.    3  male,  2  female  char. 
HN  WOPPS.     A   Farce   in  1  Act     By 
T.  E.  Suter.    4  male,  2  female  char. 
£E  TURKISH  BATH.   A  Farce  in  1  Act. 
ly  Montague  Williams  and  F.  C.  Burnand. 
male,  1  female  char. 

IE  TWO  PUDDIFOOTS.  A  Farce  in  1 
.ct.  By  J.  M.  Morton.  3  male,  3  female  char. 
J3  HONESTY.  A  Comic  Drama  in  2 
icts.  By  J.  M.  Morton.  5  male- 2  female  char. 
VO  GENTLEMEN  IN  A  FIX,  A 
"arce  in  1  Act.  By  W.  E.  Suter.  2  male  char. 
IASHINGTON  GOIT.  A  Farce  in  1  Act 
}y  T.  J.  Williams.  5  male,  3  female  char. 
070  HEADS  BETTER  THAN  ONE.  A 
farce  in  1  Act  By  Lenox  Home.  4  male, 
.  female  char. 

)HN  DOBBS.    A  Farce  in  1  Act  ByJ.M. 
tlorton.    5  male,  2  female  char. 
HE  DAUGHTER  of  the  REGIMENT. 
V  Drama  in  2  Acts.     By  Edward  Fitzball. 
i  male,  2  female  char. 

CTNT  CHARLOTTE'S  MAID.  A  Farce  in  1 
Vet  By  J.  M.  Morton.  3  male,  3  female  char. 
ROTHER  BILL  AND  ME.  A  Farce  in 
.  Act  By  W.  E.  Suter.  4  male,  3  female  char. 
ONE  ON  BOTH  SIDES.  A  Farce  in  1 
\ct  By  J.  M.  Morton.  3  male,  2  female  char. 
TJNntTCKETTY'S  PICNIC.  A'Farce  in  1 
let.  By  T.  J.  Williams.  6  male,  3  female  char. 
VE  WRITTEN  TO  BROWNE.  A  Farce 
in  1  Act  By  T.  J.  Williams.  4  male,  3  female 
:har. 

:Y  PRECIOUS  BETSY.  A  Farce  in  1 
Act  By  J.  M.  Morton.  4  male,  4  female  char. 
IY  TURN  NEXT.  A  Farce  in  1  Act  By 
T.  J.  Williams.  4  male,  3  female  char. 
'HE  PHANTOM  BREAKFAST.  A  Farce 
in  1  Act  By  Chas.  Selby.  0  male,  2  female  char. 
lANDELION'S  DODGES.  A  Farce  in  1 
Act.  By  T.  J.  Williams.  4  male,  2  female  char. 
.  SLICE  OF  LUCK.  A  Farce  in  1  Act  By 
J.  M.  Morton.  4  male,  2  female  char. 
.LWAYS  INTENDED.  A  Comedy  in  1 
Act  By  llorace  Wigan.  3  male,  3  female  char. 
L  BULL  IN  A  CHINA  SHOP.  A  Comedy 
in  2  Acts.  By  Charlca  Matthews.  6  male,  4 
female  char. 

ANOTHER  GLASS.   A  Drama  in  1  Act  By 
Thomas  Morton.    C  male,  3  female  char. 
3OWLED    OUT.     A  Farce  in  1  Act   ByH. 
T.  Craven.   4  male,  3  female  char. 
'OUSIN  TOM.    A  Commedietta  in  1  Act.  By 
Gco.  Roberts.    3  male,  2  female  char. 
SARAH'S   YOUNG   MAN.     A  Farce  in  1 
Act.    By  W.  E.  Suter.  3  male,  3  female  char. 
IIT  HIM,  HE  HAS  NO  FRIENDS.    A 
Farce  in  1  Act.    By  E.  Yates  and  N.  II.  Har- 
rington.  7  male,  3  female  char. 
THE   CHRISTENING.    A  Farce  in  1  Act. 
By  J.  B.  Buckstone.  5  male  6  female  char. 
I  RACE   FOR  A  WIDOW.     A  Farce  in  1 
Act.    ByT.  J.Williams.  5  male,  4  female  char, 
f  OUR  LIFE'S  IN  DANGER.    A  Farce  in 
1  Act    By  J.  M.  Morton.  3  male,  3  female  char. 
TRUE  UNTO  DEATH.    A  Drama  in  2  Acts. 
By  J.  Sheridan  Kuowles.  6  male,  2  female  char. 


86.  DIAMOND  CUT  DIAMOND.  An  In 

in  1  Act   By  W.  H.  Murray.    10  male,  1 
char. 

37.  LOOK  AFTER  BROWN.    A  Farce  h 
By  George  A.  Stuart,  M.  D.   6  male,  1 

88.  MONSEIGNEUR.    A  Drama  in  3  Ac 
Thomas  Archer.   15  male,  3  female  char 

39.  A   VERY    PLEASANT     EVENIN 

Farce  in  1  Act.   By  W.  E.  Suter.   3  male 

40.  BROTHER  BEN.    A  Farce  in  1  Act. 

M.  Morton.   3  male,  3  female  char. 

41.  ONLY  A  CLOD.    A  Comic  Drama  in 

By  J.  P.  Simpson.   4  male,  1  female  cha 

42.  GASPARDO     THE     GONDOLIE] 

Drama  in  3  Acts.   By  George  Almar.    K 
2  female  char. 

43.  SUNSHINE  THROUGH  THE  CLC 

A  Drama  in  1  Act    By  Slingsby  Lawre 
male,  3  female  char. 

44.  DON'T  JUDGE  BY  APPEARANC] 

Farce  in  1  Act.    By  J.  M.  Morton.    3 1 
female  char. 

45.  NURSEY  CHICKWEED.    A  Farce  ir 

By  T.  J.  Williams.   4  male,  2  lemale  chi 

46.  MARY  MOO;  or.  Which  shall  I  M 

A  Farce  in  1  Act    By  W.  E.  Suter.  2  i 
female  char. 

47.  EAST  LYNNE.    A  Drama  in  5  Acts.  J 

7  female  char. 

48.  THE  HIDDEN  HAND.  A  Drama  in 

By  Robert  Jones.   16  male,  7  female  chai 

49.  SILVERSTONE'S  WAGER.   A  Con 

ettainlAct  By  R.  R.  Andrews.   4mal 
male  char. 

60.  DORA.  A  Pastoral  Drama  in  3  Acts.   Bi 
Reade.    5  male,  2  female  char. 

65.  THE  WIFE'S  SECRET.    A  Play  in 

By  Geo.  W.  Lovell.  10  male,  2  female  c. 

66.  THE  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD.    A 

edy  in  3  Acts.  By  Tom  Taylor.   10  mal 
male  char. 

67.  PUTKINS  i  Heir  «3  Castles  in  th( 

A  Comic  Drama  in  i  Act    By  W.  R.  En 

2  male,  2  fe.i.alc  char. 

58.  AN  UGI.Y  CUSTOMER.    A  Farce  ir 

By  Th^nus  J.  Williams.   3  male,  2  lemal 

69.  BLUE  AND  CHERRY.  A  Comedy  ii 

3  male,  2  female  char. 

60.  A  DOUBTFUL  VICTORY.   A  Com 

1  Act.    3  male,  2  female  char. 

61.  THE  SCARLET  LETTER.    A  Dran 

Acts.    8  male,  7  female  char. 

62.  WHICH  WILL  HAVE  HIMP   A"\ 

villc.    1  male,  2  female  char. 

63.  MADAM  IS  ABED.    A  Vaudeville  in 

2  male,  2  female  char. 

64.  THE  ANONYMOUS  KISS.    AVauc 

2  male,  2  female  char. 

65.  THE  CLEFT  STICK.    A  Comedy  in  i 

6  male,  3  female  char. 

66.  A  SOLDIER,   A  SAILOR,  A  TIN 

AND  A  TAILOR.   A  Farce  in  1  Aci.  1 
2  female  char. 

67.  GIVE  A  DOG  A    BAD  NAME.    A 

2  male,  2  female  char. 

68.  DAMON    AND    PYTHIAS.      A   Fa 

male,  4  female  char. 

69.  A  HUSBAND  TO  ORDER.    A  Serio- 

Drama  in  2  Acts.    6  male,  3  female  char, 

70.  PAYABLE    ON   DEMAND.     A  Do 

Drama  in  2  Acts.    7  male,  1  female  char. 


•riptive  Catalogue  mailed  free  on  application  to 

Geo.  M.  Baker  &  Co.,  47  Franklin  St.,  Host 


NEVADA; 


OR, 


THE    LOST    MINE. 


SDrama  in  Cftree 


BY  • '.    "...    .', 

GEORGE    M.   BAKER, 

AUTHOR  OF  "COMRADES,"  "BETTER  THAN  GOLD,"  "PAST  REDEMP- 
TION," "REBECCA'S  TRIUMPH,"  "AMONG  THE  BREAKERS," 
"THE  LAST  LOAF,"  "ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS,"  "OUR 
FOLKS,"  "MY*BROTHER'S  KEEPER,"  ETC. 


BOSTON: 
GEORGE   M.   BAKER   AND   COMPANY. 

1882. 


<&. 


COPYRIGHT,   1882, 


CHARACTERS. 

^..//NEVADA,  THE  WANDERER.  '    -  ^  . 
VERMONT,  AN  OLD  MINER. 
TOM    CAREW,     )   £)  ,    >•  . 
DANDY    DICK,    \  ^NG^flNERS. 

SILAS  STEELE,  MISSIONARY  OF  HEALTH. 
^^ERDEN,  A  DETECTIVE. 


j>       JUBE,  A  BLACK  MINER. 

WIN-KYE,  A  CHINAMAN.    .', 
- 


MOTHER   MERTON.       - 
AGNES   FAIRLEEr 
MOSELLE,  A  WAIF. 


COSTUMES. 

NEVADA.  Long  white  hair  and  beard,  gray  shirt,  d 
ragged  ;  boots  and  belt  ;  one  leg  of  pants  in  boot,  the  c 
ribbons. 

VERMONT.  Iron-gray  bald  wig  and  beard,  gray  shirt,  ~.^._  ..^.^ 
in  boots,  belt,  pistol  in  hip-pocket,  short  coat,  slouch  hat. 

TOM.  Full  black  beard,  blue  shirt,  dark  pants  tucked  in  long  boots, 
black  necktie,  short  coat,  pistol  in  hip-pocket,  slouch  hat  worn  jauntily, 
red  handkerchief  worn  for  belt. 

DANDY  DICK.  Light  hair  and  beard,  trimmed  ;  blue  shirt  with  red 
necktie,  dark  pants  tucked  in  long  boots,  dark  coat,  Derby  hat  ;  dressed 
neatly  as  possible. 

JERDEN.     Full  beard,  mixed  siiiOpistol  in  hip-pocket,  Derby  hat. 

JUBE.  Woolly  wig,  blackface,  throat,  and  arms,  red  shirt  thrown  back 
from  throat,  with  sleeves  rolled  up  to  elbow,  overalls  in  boots. 

WIN-KYE.    White  pants,  blue  blouse,  cue. 

SILAS.  Red  wig,  mustache,  and  goatee,  tourist  blouse,  long  boots, 
slouch  hat. 

MOTHER.    Gray  wig,  calico  dress. 

AGXES.     Travelling-dress  and  hat. 

MOSELLE.  First  Dress.  Travelling-dress,  hat  and  feather,  neat  and 
tasty.  Second  Dress.  Short  red  dress,  blue  kerchief  knotted  loosely  on 
breast,  light  stockings,  boots,  broad-brimmed  straw  hat,  arms  bare,  hair 
free. 


M84448 


X 


THE  LOST   MINE. 


ACT  i. —  Wooded  and  rocky  fiat;  inclined  run  R.,  masked 
by  rocks,  leading  up  from  a  rocky  platform  C. ;  door  and 
part  of  a  log  cabin,  L.,  creepers  and  vines  running  over  //, 
rocks  and  foliage;  L.  mask  the  remainder;  R.  rocks  and 
foliage,  rock  for  a  seat  R.,  near  2  entrance.    . 
seat  L.,  between  platform  and  door;  on  roc  '. 
R.  in  large  white  letters,  "  Bus  ted' s  Balm,' 
paint-pail  in  left  hand,  and  brush  in  right,  $•"  [LAS  S 
is  discovered  giving  a  finishing  touch.     SIL.__  .     0  , 

Oh  !  here's  to  good  old  Busted, 

Write  him  down  ; 
Oh  !  here's  to  good  old  Busted, 

Write  him  down ; 
Oh  !  here's  to  good  old  Busted, 

For  his  balm  is  always  trusted : 
Write  him  down,  write  him  down,  write  him  down. 

(Stands  off,  and  looks  at  his  work.)  Again  the  missionary 
of  health  plants  his  victorious  banner  on  a  giant  bowlder, 
that  shall  forever  point  the  westward  hoers  to  the  fountain 
of  health.  (Sefs  down  pail,  and  looks  at  his  hands.)  A  foun- 
tain of  water  would  be  more  to  my  taste  just  now  :  the  handle 
of  that  pail  is  in  a  bad  condition,  but  I'll  fix  it.  (Takes  a 
newspaper  from  his  pocket,  and  wraps  it  round  handle  while 
speaking.)  Big  scheme  of  Busted  to  spread  his  balm  all 
over  the  continent,  from  Switcham,  Vt.,  to  the  top  of  the 
Sierra  Nevadas.  Such  outward  applications  of  the  infal- 
lible awaken  curiosity,  curiosity  stirs  the  sluggish  brain  to 
action,  the  active  brain  arouses  the  torpid  system,  and 

5 


\  /TKEj  LCN5T    MINE. 

health  reanimates!  jt{ie  sinking  frame.  For  further  particu- 
lars see1  sm^ll  bills. *  :That  M-'s^a  little  shaky;  I'll  touch  it 
up  a  little,  or  some  of  these  hardy  miners  will  take  it  for  a 
bad  spell:  and,  being  so  choice  in  their  language,  that  would 
never  do.  (Works  with  brush.  Sings),  — 

Oh  \  here's  to  good  old  Busted. 

(Enter  from  cabin  MOTHER  MERTON,  with  broom) 
MOTHER.     Who  on  earth  is  that  howling? 
SILAS  (sings),— 

Write  him  down, 

MOTHER.     A  stranger  \    What's  he  doing  to  that  rock  ? 
SILAS  (sings), — 

Oh  \  here's  to  good  old  Busted. 

MOTHER.  Busted  \  I  do  believe  he's  trying  to  blast  it 
right  before  my  door  —  blow  us  all  up.  (Brings  broom  down 
.an  his  back  smartly)  Here,  stop  that  \ 

SILAS  (turning,  and  presenting  brush  like  a  pistol). 
Look  out  for  paint.  (MOTHER  steps  back.)  I  beg  your  par- 
don; but,  if  there  is  anything  in  my  personal  appearance 
that  leads  you  to  suspect  my  jacket  needs  dusting,  a  gentler 
application  of  the  duster  might  save  the  dustor  some  strength, 
and  the  dusteed  much  wind.  Hang  it  \  you  nearly  took  away 
my  breath. 

MOTHER.  Served  you  right.  Who  are  you  ?  Where  did 
you  come  from  ?  What's  that  daub? 

SILAS  (aside).  Daub  \  shade  of  Michael  Angelo  \  (Aloud) 
Madam,  I  am  a  missionary. 

MOTHER.  Good  gracious  \  A  parson.  Why  didn't  you 
say  so  before  ?  Settled  ? 

SILAS.  No.  (Rubs  shoulders)  I  thought  I  was  just 
now. 

MOTHER.     Where  do  you  hail  from,  parson  ? 

SILAS.  Switcham,  Vt.  That  answers  your  second  in- 
terrogatory. The  third  I  will  save  you  the  trouble  of 
repeating  by  announcing  the  fact  that  the  daub,  as  you  are 
pleased  to  call  my  etching,  is  the  good  tidings  I  am  ordained 
to  proclaim.  That's  one  of  my  sermons ;  and  sermons  in 
stones,  though  not  original  with  me,  have  at  least  the  merit 
of  brevity  to  recommend  them. 


THE   LOST    MINE.  7 

• 

MOTHER.     "  Busted's  Balm."     Are  you  Busted  ? 

SILAS.     No ;  but  I  shall  be  if  you  ask  any  more  questions. 

MOTHER.  Oh,  come,  be  sociable  !  I  came  from  Vermont 
myself. 

SILAS.     Possible  ? 

MOTHER.  Yes:  twelve  years  ago,  with  my  husband,  ex- 
pecting to  return  in  two  years  with  a  fortune;  but  in  two 
years  husband  died. 

SILAS.     Ah !     A  w/jfortune. 

MOTHER.  And  here  I've  been  ever  since,  the  mother  of 
this  camp;  and  my  boys  —  white,  black,  and  yellow  —  take 
good  care  that  I  have  my  share  of  the  dust. 

SILAS  (shrugs  shoulders}.     I  understand  —  with  a  broom. 

MOTHER.  La,  parson !  don't  bear  malice  :  do  you  suppose 
I'd  have  struck  you,  if  I'd  an  idea  of  your  cloth  ? 

SILAS.     Thank  you.     My  coat  is  rather  thin. 

MOTHER.  Expect  to  locate  here  ?  The  boys  would  be 
mighty  glad  to  have  you ;  and  they'd  see  that  you  had  a 
peaceful  hearing,  if  they  had  to  shoot  the  whole  congre- 
gation. 

SILAS.  Would  they?  Very  kind  of  the  boys,  but  I  hope 
they'd  leave  somebody  to  pass  the  contribution-box. 

MOTHER.     Vermont  would  see  to  the  dust. 

SILAS.     Who's  Vermont  ? 

MOTHER.  The  best  of  the  lot,  steady  as  a  clock,  but  a 
powerful  wrestler;  that's  his  weakness. 

SILAS.     Is  it?     I've  a  strong  weakness  in  that  line  too. 

MOTHER.  You'd  have  no  show  with  him.  Now,  par- 
son— 

SILAS.  Oh,  drop  that !  This  person  is  no  parson,  but,  if 
the  old  saying  is  true,  just  the  opposite ;  for  I  am  a  deacon's 
son. 

MOTHER.     The  deuce  you  are ! 

SILAS.     No  :  the  Deuce's  grandson. 

MOTHER.     What's  your  name  ? 

SILAS.  Silas  Steele,  jun.  I'm  the  little  one,  and  dad's  the 
big  Steele.  I'm  travelling  for  Busted's  Balm. 

MOTHER.     Where  do  you  expect  to  find  it? 

SILAS.  'Tis  found  already.  And,  to  spread  abroad  the 
glorious  fact,  I've  taken  a  large  contract;  and  it's  the  biggest 
undertaking  any  undertaker  ever  undertook.  I  never  real- 
ized before  that  there  was  such  a  strong  objection  to  clean 


8  THE    LOST    MINE. 

white  paint;  but  I've  found  it  out  now,  for  I've  been  pep- 
pered by  indignant  shot-guns,  pounded  by  angry  broomsticks, 
booted  by  revengeful  brogans,  and  bulldozed  by  man's  faith- 
ful friends,  the  puppies. 

MOTHER.     Then,  you're  only  a  pill-pedler,  after  all. 

SILAS.     A  pill-pedler !  great  Busted  ! 

MOTHER.     You  said  you  were  a  missionary. 

SILAS.  So  I  am.  What  nobler  mission  than  mine,  to 
proclaim  to  a  suffering  world,  sunk  in  misery  by  aches  and 
^torments,  the  advent  of  the  wonderful  cure-all  that  will  eracli- 
jcate  the  ills  with  which  the  body  groans,  from  bald  head  to 
'bunions?  For  further  particulars  see  small  bills.  (Looks  0^~R.) 
iAh !  there's  a  bowlder  I  missed ;  must  secure  that  before 
Foggarty's  Liniment,  or  some  other  quack  nostrum,  defaces 
the  fair  face  of  nature  with  a  lie.  (Goes  np  run,  turns.) 
Good-by,  widow.  Give  the  parson's  benediction  to  the 
boys.  (Exit.} 

MOTHER.   Well,   of    all    harum-scarum  chaps,    he's    the 

•ngueyist;  I  couldn't  get  a  word  in  edgeways. 
(Enter  VERMONT,  R.  2  E.) 

VERMONT.     Little  one  come,  widcler  ? 

MOTHER.     No:  supper's  all  ready  for  her. 

VERMONT.  Stage's  about  due.  Widder,  I've  a  little  mat- 
ter on  my  mind  I'd  like  to  pan  out  afore  the  little  one  gets 
here. 

MOTHER.     About  her? 

VERMONT  (sits  on  rock  R.).  Yes,  about  her.  It's  ten 
years,  widder,  since  your  old  man  passed  in  his  checks,  and 
had  a  hole  scooped  for  him  out  there  under  the  hill. 

MOTHER  (sighs).     Ah,  yes  ! 

VERMONT.  It  was  jest  about  that  time  that  I  dropped 
into  your  ranch  one  dark  night,  with  a  little  girl  in  my  arms. 
She  might  have  been  a -five-year  old  — 

MOTHER.  Or  six:  we  never  could  make  out.  She  was 
burning  with  fever.  You  found  her  in  a  basket,  floating  in 
the  creek. 

VERMONT.  Exactly.  That's  what  I  told  you,  and  I 
brought  her  to  you  because  you  was  the  only  female  woman 
in  the  camp. 

MOTHER.     Yes :  bless  her  !  she  brought  luck  with  her. 

VERMONT.  You  bet  she  did.  Those  little  ones  always 
do.  Well,  I  read  a  long  while  ago,  while  prospecting  in  the 


THE    LOST    MINE.  9 

big  book,  —  that's  pay-dirt  way  down  to  bed-rock,  —  about 
that  king  pin  what  struck  the  little  game  "  Faro,"  and  named 
it  nrter  hisself,  how  he  had  a  darter  what  found  a  baby  float- 
ing in  a  creek,  and  called  it  "  Moses ;  "  and,  as  I  warnt  goin' 
back  on  scripter,  I  named  our  little  one  Moses  too. 

MOTHER.  And,  as  that  was  not  a  girl's  name,  I  changed 
it  to  Moselle. 

VERMONT.  That  was  too  Frenchy  for  the  boys  ;  so  they 
split  the  dif,  and  called  her  Mosey. 

MOTHER.  And  Mosey  is  just  worshipped  by  the  boys.  I 
believe,  if  you  would  let  them,  they  would  cover  her  with 
gold. 

VERMONT  (rising).    Likely.    But,  when  I  washed  that  nug- 
get outer  the  creek,  I  staked  a  claim  in  which  I  wanted  no 
partners.     Says  I,  "  Vermont,  here's  a  chance  for  you  to  use 
your  dust,  and  don't   you   forget  it."     I  believe  the  angels 
dropped  one  of  their  little  sisters  into  the  creek,  to  make  an 
ugly  old  sinner  ashamed  of  his  wicker1" 
across  his  eyes.)    Widder,  you've  bee 
a  good  one. 

MOTHER.     And  you,  the   best  o 
you've  sent  her  off  to  school,  and 
to  us  — 

VERMONT.  With  Tom  Carew,  our  Tom,  the  handsomest 
and  squarest  miner  in  the  diggin's.  I  wouldn't  trust  the 
bringin'  of  her  home  to  any  other  of  the  boys. 

MOTHER.     Except  Dick  :  she's  very  foncl  of  Dick. 

VERMONT.  Dandy  Dick,  as  the  boys  call  him.  Oh,  he's 
well  enough  for  a  short  acquaintance.  He's  only  been  here 
six  months,  and  there's  something  about  him —  Well,  if 
Mosey  likes  him,  it's  all  right. 

JUBE  (outside  R.).     Hi,  hi !     Mudder  Merton,  de  stage  am 
come,  Mosey's  to  hum. 
(Enter  JUBE,  down  run,  with  a  hat-box  under  one  arm,  a 

I'alise  in  hand,  followed  by  WiN-KYE  with  a  valise  in  left 

hand,  an   umbrella   spread  oi'er  his  head.     JUBE  comes 

down  L.,  WiN-KYE  drops  valise  on  platform,  tumbles  over 

it,  and  mixes  himself  up  with  the  umbrella?) 

JUBE.  Golly,  see  dat  ar  mongo  !  hist  yerself,  hist  yerself. 
Want  to  broke  ebery  bone  in  dat  ar  ambril  ? 

WIN-KYE  (jumping  up  and  closing  umbrella).  Umblillee 
spillee  all  ligh'. 


IO  THE   LOST    MINE. 

JUBE.  Bar's  a  surprise  party  comin',  Mudder  Merton. 
Golly  !  such  a  bobbycue.  Smoove  yer  liar,  Vermont,  smoove 
yer  har,  take  yer  boots  outer  yer  pants;  dust  de  cheers,  mud- 
der,  dust  all  de  cheers ;  dar  hasn't  been  sich  an  arribal  since 
—  since  the  Queen  ob  Shebang  went  wislting  ole  King  Solo- 
man  Isaacs,  nebber. 

WiN-KvE  (puffing).  Jube  walkee  fast,  talkee  fast,  me  no 
catchee  bleath,  me  puffee. 

VERMONT.  What's  the  matter,  Jube  ?  it's  only  our 
Mosey. 

WIN-KYE.  Mosey  nice  gaily,  velly  nice  gaily;  me  chin 
chin  Mosey,  Mosey  chin  chin  me;  all  ligh'. 

JUBE.  Mosey.  Yah,  yah,  she's  come,  bress  her !  Jes' as 
lobely  and  libely  as  eber.  Why,  de  boys  jes'  crowd  roun'  dat 
ar  stage,  and  shook  her  han's,  and  she  shook  back,  an'  laff ; 
golly,  how  she  laff !  might  heard  her  a  mile  off.  But  dar's 
anuder. 

MOTHER.     Another,  Jube  ? 

JUBE.  Yas  indeed,  a  rale  lady;  no  riff-raff,  but  de  real 
ting,  de  dust  in  de  pan,  jes  a  seraphine,  hansom',  oh,  my  !  an' 
sweet,  sweet  —  golly!  when  I  seed  that  lilly  foot  ob  hers 
creepin'  out  ob  der  stage,  it  jest  smashed  me. 

WIN-KYE.  She  snapee  eyes,  she  smilee  so  (grins),  she 
smashee  me. 

MOSELLE  (outside).  Never  mind  me,  Tom,  help  Agnes: 
my  foot  is  on  my  native  heath,  my  name's  (appears  on  run}  — 

ALL.     Mosey? 

MOSELLE.  Yes,  Mosey,  Moses,  Moselle, —  we  three.  Ha, 
ha,  ha!  that's  me.  (Runs  down  into  Mother  Aferton's  arms.) 
O  you  dear  old  soul,  ain't  I  glad  I'm  home  ! 

MOTHER.     'Tis  a  happy  day  for  us,  darling. 

MOSELLE  (breaking  away).     Where's  daddy  ? 

VERMONT.     Right  here,  little  one. 

MOSELLE  (throws  her  arms  about  his  neck).  Here's  your 
nugget,  daddy.  Ain't  you  glad  to  get  it  back? 

VERMONT.  Glad?  that's  no  name  for  it  (holds  her  off\ 
Let's  have  a  look  at  you,  —  sunshine  all  over,  and  as  fine  as 
a  fiddle  in  your  store-clothes. 

MOSELLE.  I'll  not  be  in  them  long,  daddy,  so  take  a  good 
look  at  them;  for  I'm  just  dying  to  get  into  my  old  climbing- 
suit,  and  away  for  a  scamper  over  the  rocks.  Ah,  Jube! 
there's  lots  of  fun  ahead. 


THE    LOST    MINE.  II 

JUBE.  Yas,  indeed,  honey !  jes'  waitin'  fer  yer  to  touch  it 
off. 

MOSELLE.    Ha,  ha,  ha !  I'm  a  match  for  it.    Ain't  I,  Win  ? 

Wix-KYE.     You  sclatchee  match,  blow  high-sky,  fitt ! 

MOSELLE  (in  front  o/WiN-KvE).  Oh,  you  queer  bit  of 
broken  China!  I'd  like  to  set  you  on  a  shelf  at  school,  and 
set  your  head  a-going  to  please  the  boys.  (Points  forefingers 
up,  and  nods  head  a  la  Chinese.} 

WiK-KYE  (imitating  her}.     No  settee  up  fol  the  boys. 

MOSELLE.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  but  you  must  go.  Ah,  daddy! 
I'm  as  full  of  mischief  as  I  was  the  day  I  threw  the  powder- 
flask  into  your  frying-pan.  (All  laugh} 

JUBE.     Dat  was  rough  on  de  ole  man. 

MOSELLE.  Jube  remembers  it ;  for,  while  he  was  helping 
daddy  put  a  new  roof  on  and  patch  up  the  rent,  I  hid  his 
shovel  and  pick;  and  he  couldn't  find  it  for  a  week.  (All, 
but  JUBE  laugh} 

Wix-KYE  (points  to  JUBE).     That  b1 

MOSELLE.  So  look  out  for  yourst 
folks  :  I  give  you  fair  warning.  Min 
want  it  for  my  back  hair. 

WIX-KYE.  All  ligh'  !  you  catchee,  you  clippee,  you 
Mcsee,  me  mosee  too. 

TOM  (outside}.  Be  careful  of  that  rock,  Miss.  Give  me 
your  hand.  Now  you're  all  right. 

MOSELLE.  Oh!  what  am  I  thinking  of?  Mother,  I've 
brought  you  a  visitor,  —  Miss  Fairlee,  one  of  our  teachers, 
and  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine. 

JUBE.    'Dat's  what  I  tole  yer,  de  Queen  ob  Shebang. 
(ToM  and  AGNES  appear  on  run  descending} 

MOTHER.     She  is  heartily  welcome. 

TOM  (on  platform}.  You  hear  that.  Miss,  —  she  speaks  for 
us  all.  A  rough  set  we  miners,  rough  and  rugged  as  the  soil 
in  which  we  search  for  gold ;  but  there  are  many  among  us 
who  remember  homes  far  off,  made  happy  by  mothers,  wives, 
and  sisters.  So  have  no  fears.  To  the  rude  cabins  that 
shelter  us,  to  the  homely  fare  that  sustains  us,  and  to  the 
protection  of  strong  arms,  you  are  heartily  welcome.  (Leads 
ht-r  down  to  MOTHER  MERTOX.) 

MOTHER  (takes  her  hand).     Indeed  you  are  ! 

AGNES.  Thank  you.  I  fear  I  shall  trespass  on  your 
kindness.  But  the  hope  of  finding  some  trace  of  a  very 
dear  friend  has  induced  me  to  accept  Moselle's  invitation. 


12  THE    LOST    MINE.   , 

MOSELLE.  Agnes,  you  must  know  my  daddy.  (Brings 
VERMONT  up c.  from  L.)  Miss  Fairlee,  daddy;  daddy,  Miss 
Fairlee. 

VERMONT  (bowing).    Very  glad  to  meet  you. 

AGNES  (offering  her  hand}.  And  I  am  proud  to  know 
you.  Moselle  is  a  bright  scholar :  she  has  made  many  friends 
at  school,  but  1  know  the  warmest  corner  in  her  heart  is  kept 
for  you. 

VERMONT.  Thank  you,  marm:  if  I  can  serve  you,  call 
on  Vermont  every  time. 

JUBE.  An'  when  de  ole  man  ain't  roun',  jes'  look  dis  way. 
I's  spry,  and  dreffel  willin'. 

WIN-KYE.     Alle  same  so  lookee  me. 

AGNES.     Thank  you  all. 

MOTHER.  You  must  be  hungry  after  your  long  ride. 
Supper's  all  ready. 

MOSELLE.  Supper !  Where  is  it?  I  never  was  so  hungry 
but  once  :  that's  now. 

MOTHER.  This  way,  Miss  Fairlee.  (Exeunt  MOTHER 
and  AGNES  into  cabin.} 

JUBE.  Come  on,  Win.  Tote  de  luggage  in.  (Exit  into 
cabin.} 

WIN-KYE.  All  ligh'  !  Schoolee-marm  some  punkee. 
(Exit  to  cabin} 

MOSELLE.  Ain't  she  lovely,  daddy  ?  (Goes  to  door,  turns, 
and  looks  at  TOM,  who  stands  L.  c.  looking  at  door.)  Tom 
(puts  her  hand  on  heart,  and  sighs},  I'd  pity  you,  but  I'm  so 
hungry.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  (Exit.} 

(VERMONT  crosses,  and  sits  on  rock  R.,  watching  TOM,  who 
stands  with  his  eyes  on  door.} 

TOM.  Lovely?  Never  was  a  more  tempting  bait  set 
before  the  eyes  of  a  hungry  miner  to  lure  him  back  to  civ- 
ilization. Out  of  a  world  from  which  we  have  banished  our- 
selves for  greed  of  gold,  she  comes,  gentle  and  refined,  to 
show  us  the  lost  state  of  peace  and  happiness  to  which, 
though  the  earth  unbosom  its  richest  treasures,  we  hardened 
wretches  can  never  return. 

VERMONT.  Tom,  what  yer  starin'  at  that  door  for  ?  Ain't 
in  love,  air  yer? 

TOM  (comes  down}.  In  love?  I  never  yet  saw  a  woman 
that  could  bring  a  blush  to  my  face.  That's  one  of  the  in- 
dications, isn't  it? 


THE    LOST    MINE.  .  13 

VERMONT.    Exactly. 

MOTHER  (sticking  her  head  out  of  door}.  Tom,  come  and 
have  some  supper.  (Disappears.} 

TOM.     No,  thank  yer:  I'm  not  hungry 

VERMONT.     That's  another  indication. 

TOM.     Vermont,  isn't  she  lovely  ? 

VERMONT.     The  widder  ? 

TOM.     The  widow  !     No  :  the  other. 

VERMONT.     Mosey? 

TOM.  Miss  Fairlee,  —  Agnes  Fairlee,  —  Agnes,  —  what 
a  name  !  So  poetical !  Agnes,  —  so  sweet ! 

VERMONT.  Spell  it,  Tom :  there's  nothing  like  lengthened 
sweetness  long  drawn  out. 

TOM.  Old  man,  you're  laughing  at  me.  You  needn't: 
I'm  all  right. 

VERMONT.     Not  in  love  ? 

TOM.     Not  a  bit  of  it. 

VERMONT.     Ain't  goin'  back  on  the  comfort 

TOM.     No,  old  man;  but  when  that  — 

VERMONT.     Agnes  (smacks  his  lips}  does 
sweet. 

TOM.  When  Miss  Fairlee  placed  her  little  hand  in  my 
arm,  and  looked  up  into  my  face,  I  felt  as  though  I  would 
like  to  die  for  her. 

VERMONT.     Must  have  been  a  killing  look. 

TOM.  And  when  she  spoke,  the  queerest  feeling  — 
There  it  is  again.  Old  man,  I  feel  sick. 

(Enter  JUBE  and  WiN-KYE/h?///  cabin} 

JUBE.  Sick?  Don't  you  do  it.  Dar  ain't  a  fusycian 
widdin  fourteen  miles. 

\ViN-K\'E.     Me  bling  pillee  man  velly  quick. 

VERMONT.  All  the  doctor  he  wants  is  in  the  cabin.  Tom, 
you're  talking  like  a  blamed  fool;  but  it's  jest  nater:  when 
a  woman  touches  the  fancy  of  a  man,  it's  like  the  wind 
among  the  timber.  The  little  ones  sway  and  rustle,  and 
seem  mighty  tickled ;  but  the  big  brawny  trees  groan  and 
tremble  as  though  their  last  day  had  come.  Shake  yourself 
together,  boy,  jump  into  your  hole,  a  good  steady  diet  of 
pick  and  shovel  is  a  sure  cure  for  love  or  bile. 
(JERDEN  appears  on  run} 

JERDEN  (speaking  as  he  comes  down  to  stage).  Morning, 
mates :  where  can  I  find  one  Tom  Carew  ? 


14  THE   LOST    MINE. 

TOM.     I  answer  to  that  name,  stranger. 

JERDEN.  Ah!  I'm  in  luck.  They  say  you're  the  best  in- 
formed miner  in  these  parts.  I'm  looking  fora  man  who 
came  from  the  East,  —  Richard  Fairlee. 

TOM.     Don't  know  him,  stranger. 

VERMONT.  Names  don't  count  here.  Most  of  us  is 
baptized  and  rechristened  when  we  arrive.  What  does  he 
look  like  ? 

JUBE.     Has  he  got  all  his  arms  and  legs,  years  and  eyes? 

WiN-KYE.     Any  strawbelly  marks,  John  ? 

JERDEN.     I  have  traced  him  by  many  aliases.     How  he 
looks  now,  I  cannot  say ;    but  when    he    left   the    East   he 
looked  like  this. 
Takes  photograph  from  pocket-book,  and  hands  it  to  TOM, 

who  looks  at  it,  VERMONT,  JUBE,  and  WiN-KYE  crowd 

round  him.} 

TOM.     A  good-looking  fellow.     I  don't  know  him. 

VERMONT.     Don't  belong  in  this  camp. 

JUBE.  No,  sir :  dat  air  feller  ain't  got  no  beard,  an'  has 
light  complex,  jes'  like  Win-Kye. 

WIN-KYE.  No  Chinaman;  'Melican  man  plaps,  Ilishman 
plaps  ;  no  Chinaman. 

JERDEN.     Well,  there  he  is ;  and  he's  wanted  by  a  bank. 

TOM.     Robbery  ? 

JERDEN  (c.).     Forgery,  twenty  thousand  dollars. 
(VERMONT  and  JUBE  R.,  TOM  and  WIN-KYE  L.) 

TOM.     You're  a  detective  ? 

JERDEN.  Yes.  Shall  I  have  your  help  in  securing  this 
fugitive  from  justice  ? 

TOM  (coldly).  We're  not  man-hunters.  Many  a  poor  fel- 
low, made  criminal  by  passion  or  misfortune,  has  drifted 
among  us  to  be  made  better  by  a  life  of  hardship  and  priva- 
tion. We  ask  no  man's  past  history.  If  he  be  knave  or 
fool,  he  shows  his  hand,  and  he  is  lost.  Miner  law  is  swift 
and  sure. 

VERMONT.     You've  your  answer,  stranger. 

JERDEN.  All  right:  I'll  find  my  man  without  your  help; 
but,  if  you  should  change  your  minds,  there's  a  thousand  dol- 
lars for  the  man  who  gives  information. 

TOM  and  VERMONT  (draw  revolvers,  cover  JERDEN,  and 
sf>eak  together).  You  get ! 

(JERDEN  turns,  and  ntns  up  run,  against  SILAS,  who  is  de- 
scending.} 


THE    LOST    MINE.  15 

SILAS.  Look  out  for  paint.  (Exit  JERDEN.)  Seems  to 
be  in  a  hurry.  (Comes  down  to  stage.}  How  are  you,  boys  ? 
White,  black,  and  yellow.  The  widow  said  she  had  an  assort- 
ment of  colors,  and  here  they  are.  Put  up  your  shooting- 
irons,  gentlemen:  I'm  a  friend  of  the  widow's.  I  left  my 
card  here  an  hour  ago.  (Points  to  rock.}  « 

TOM.     Any  friend  of  the  widow's  is  heartily  welcome. 

VERMONT.     From  the  east,  stranger? 

SILAS  (sets  paint-pail  down  near  rock}.  Switcham,  Vt. 
Name,  Silas  Steele.  Occupation,  painter  and  decorator. 
For  further  particulars  seek  any  prominent  bowlder,  and 
look  out  for  paint. 

JUBE.     Golly  !  dar's  a  heap  er  talent  in  dat  ar  brush,  I 
know ;  fur  I  used  to  whitewash  myself. 
(WiN-KYE  edges  up  to  paint,  examines  it.  takes  brush,  and 

daubs  a  little  on  rock  during  the  following  scene,  dropping 

it,  and  taking  it  up  as  SILAS  turns  and  watches  him  » 

SILAS.    Whitewash  yourself?    You  took  a  big  co 

TOM.     Stopping  with  the  widow  ? 

SILAS.     No  :  only  a  chance  acquaintance.    She  ca. 
Vermont. 

VERMONT.     So  did  I. 

SILAS.  Did  you?  Then,  you're  the  man  I've  been  look- 
ing for. 

VERMONT  (starts}.     Eh? 

SILAS.  My  old  man  took  it  into  his  head  about  twelve 
years  ago  to  start  west,  minin' ;  and  we've  never  seen  him 
from  that  day  to  this.  Nice  old  fellow,  the  deacon,  but 
queer.  Started  off  without  so  much  as  a  good-by,  Hannah, 
and  has  been  lost  to  his  family,  the  church,  and  Switcham, 
ever  since.  But  we  heard  from  him  occasionally  in  the 
shape  of  gold-dust  to  mother,  but  no  word-  or  clew  to  his 
whereabouts.  Mother's  worried  so,  I've  come  out  here  to 
look  him  up  if  he;s  alive.  Any  of  you  know  Deacon  Steele  ? 

JURE.  Deacon  who  ?  Golly!  we's  all  out  ob  deacons  :  dey 
fall  from  grace  when  dey  git  out  here. 

VERMONT.  You're  wasting  time,  youngster:  the  deacon's 
dead  and  buried. 

SILAS.     You  knew  him  ? 

VERMONT.     No :  but  deacons  die  young  here. 

TOM.     Perhaps  'tis  Nevada. 

VERMONT  and  JUBE.     Nevada ! 


l6  THE    LOST    MINE. 

SILAS.     Who's  Nevada  ? 

TOM.  The  mystery  of  the  mines  :  you  may  meet  him  here 
to-day,  to-morrow  in  some  gloomy  gulch,  —  a  ragged,  crazy 
miner,  seeking,  as  he  has  sought  for  ten  years,  a  lost  mine. 

SILAS.     A  lost  mine  ? 

TOM  (c),  This  was  his  story  as  I  have  heard  it  from  old 
miners.  He  was  known  among  them  a  dozen  years  ago,  as 
a  quiet,  reserved  man,  working  by  himself,  wandering  off 
prospecting  alone.  At  times  they  missed  him.  He  had 
been  off  for  a  week,  when,  one  night,  he  came  in  staggering, 
faint  from  the  loss  of  blood,  with  a  deep  wound  in  his  head, 
and  the  wild  air  of  a  maniac.  From  his  broken  speech,  they 
gathered  this :  He  had  found  indications  of  gold,  had 
opened  a  tunnel,  and  worked  far  in,  all  by  himself,  mind,  fol- 
lowing some  theory  of  his  own,  when  suddenly,  with  his  pick, 
he  loosened  a  stone  above  his  head,  which  fell  and  crushed 
him;  not,  however,  until  he  had  caught  one  glimpse  of  a 
rich  vein  of  gold.  Poor  fellow,  he  could  never  find  his  way 
back,  and  none  of  his  mates  could  help  him.  They  would 
have  believed  his  story  to  be  but  the  wild  speech  of  his  wan- 
dering mind,  had  they  not  found  in  his  tangled  hair,  mingled 
with  dirt  and  blood,  flakes  of  gold. 

VERMONT.     Poor  old  chap. 

SILAS.     With  a  gold-mine  in  his  hair.     Rich  old  beggar. 

TOM.  Nevada  is  no  beggar;  though  no  cabin  is  shut 
against  him,  no  miner's  friendly  hand  withheld.  He  will 
neither  eat  nor  sleep  until  he  has  earned  both  food  and  shel- 
ter. For  a  willing  mate  in  an  ugly  tunnel,  with  a  steady  grip 
and  a  strong  arm,  give  me  Nevada. 

NEVADA  (outside).  Who  calls  Nevada?  (Dashes  down 
run,  and  stands  c. ;  music  pianissimo^)  Nevada,  the  gold 
king.  My  dominions  are  beneath  the  hills,  stretching  away 
in  veins  broad  and  deep,  so  rich  that  I  could  overturn 
empires ;  but  I  am  shut  out,  the  golden  doors  are  closed 
against  me,  and  the  key,  the  key,  is  lost.  (Puts  his  hand  to 
head,  drops  his  head,  and  comes  down  slowly ;  music  stops.} 

TOM.  Ah  !  it's  one  of  his  off  days.  Nevada,  old  man, 
don't  you  know  me  ? 

NEVADA  (slowly  raises  his  head,  looks  wildly  at  TOM,  then 
his  face  brightens}.  Tom,  Tom  Carew.  (They  sliake  hands 
warmly.}  You  want  me.  Many  a  day  we  have  worked  to- 
gether. (Looks  round.}  And  here's  Vermont. 


THE    LOST    MINE.  I/ 

VERMONT  (grasping  his  hand).    Right  here,  pard. 

NEVADA.     Ah  !  old  grizzly  and  —  woolly. 

JUBE.     Dat's  me  to  a  har. 

NEVADA.     And  little  pigtail. 

WIN-KYE.  Piggee  tail  velly  well,  John;  alle  same  you, 
John  ? 

NEVADA.     I'm  hungry  and  tired,  Tom :  give  me  a  pick. 

TOM.  Not  to-night,  old  friend :  you  shall  go  to  my  ranch, 
and  to-morrow  — 

NEVADA.  To-morrow.  (Looks  about  wildly.  All  draw 
away  from  him.  Music  pianissimo.}  To-morrow  I  must  go 
back,  back  along  the  ravine,  three  miles,  then  climb  the 
bowlders,  to  where  that  fallen  giant  lies  across  the  stream ; 
over  it  to  the  gorge  a  mile  beyond,  and  then  —  and  then 
I'm  lost  —  straight  ahead  to  the  right,. to  the  left,  again  and 
again,  no  trail,  no  trace ;  and  yet  'tis  there,  ever  before  my 
eyes,  the  wealth  of  a  kingdom,  the  jewel  of  Nevada  w*  *~ 
me  forever.  (Covers  his  face  with  his  hands 

TOM.     Ah !  if  we  could  only  keep  him  fron 

SILAS.     What  a  wreck  !     But  he?s  not  the 
by  gold. 

NEVADA.  Far  off,  a  mother  and  her  chile.  ,-,tut  <uixiousiy 
for  my  coming,  —  wait  for  the  gold  I  promised  them.  I  left 
the  little  one  sleeping  in  her  cradle.  Oh !  when  shall  I  see 
my  little  child  again  ?  (Music  stops.} 

(Enter,  from  cabin,  MOSEY,  with  a  change?) 

MOSELLE  (running  to  him}.  Now,  Nevada,  here  I  am. 
Have  you,  too,  missed  me  ? 

NEVADA  (looking  into  her  face  anxiously}.  I  know  that 
voice  and  that  face. 

MOSELLE.  Of  course  you  do.  It's  the  same  voice  that 
has  sang  you  to  sleep  many  and  many  a  time,  and  it's  the 
same  face  you  have  kissed  often.  Why  don't  you  now  ? 

NEVADA  (takes  her  face  between  his  hands,  and  kisses  her 
forehead}.  It's  little  Moselle  back  from  school. 

MOSELLE.  With  a  head  full  of  knowledge,  and  a  heart 
bubbling  over  with  fun. 

VERMONT.  And  when  the  two  get  working  together,  this 
camp  will  be  a  howling  wilderness,  you  bet. 

MOSELLE.     Come,  Nevada,  mother  will  be  glad  to  see  you. 

NEVADA.     No,  child  :  I  cannot  go  in. 

MOSELLE.     Then,  I'll  lead  you.     You  shall  find  plenty  to 


1 8  THE   LOST    MINE. 

do,  —  bring  water  and  wood  for  mother;  and  when  you  are 
tired  I  will  sing  for  you. 

NEVADA.  Sing!  I'll  come,  I'll  come.  I  love  to  hear 
you  sing.  (Music pianissimo]  She  was  singing  to  the  child 
the  whole  day  long,  —  the  little  one  sleeping  in  her  cradle. 
She  smiled  in  her  sleep  when  I  stooped  to  kiss  her,  and 
that  smile  is  ever  with  me.  I  see  it  in  the  first  faint,  rosy 
tints  of  the  breaking  day,  and  watch  it  deepen  and  broaden 
into  gold — (fiercely]  —  gold  that  mocks  me,  drives  me  mad. 
(Music  stops.) 

MOSELLE.  Come,  come,  Nevada,  you  need  rest  and  quiet. 
( Takes  his  hand,  and  leads  him  into  cabin.} 

NEVADA.     Yes,  little  one,  with  you.    (Music  until  off.) 

TOM.     He's  safe  for  to-night. 

SILAS.  Now,  if  some  good  Samaritan  would  take  me  in, 
I'd  esteem  it  a  favor  for  which  I  will  pay  liberally.  (Takes 
bag  from  his  breast]  Art  is  my  mistress ;  but,  when  I  get 
hungry,  I  turn  my  eyes  from  her  lovely  face  to  the  ground, 
and  dig  like  the  rest  of  you.  There's  a  little  left  in  the  bag. 

TOM.     You  can't  pay  here. 

VERMONT.     No,  tender  foot;  but  you  shall  bunk  with  me. 

TOM.  With  you,  Vermont  ?  He'll  be  the  first  stranger 
that  ever  saw  the  inside  of  your  ranch. 

JUBE.     Dat's  so.     Swachability  ain't  no  'count  wid  him. 

VERMONT.  Come  on,  stranger :  it's  jest  about  the  time  I 
fry  my  bacon. 

SILAS.  And  it's  just  the  time  I  eat  mine,  —  when  I  can 
get  it.  (Exeunt  VERMONT  and  SILAS  R.  2  E.,  SILAS  taking 
pail.) 

JUBE.  Golly!  de  idea  ob  dat  ole  Vermont  takin'  in  a 
stranger.  De  meanest  man  in  de  camp. 

TOM.     He's  not  mean  with  Mosey. 

JUBE.  Das  a  fac'.  But  to  cotton  to  a  tender  hoof.  Golly ! 
I  jes'  like  to  see  him  set  about  it.  Come  on,  Win-Kye  :  see 
de  fun.  (Exit  R.  2  E.) 

WIN-KYE.     All  ligh',  Jube.     Me  likee  funee  too.    (Exit 

R.  2  E.) 

(Enter  DANDY  DJCK  down  run,  knapsack  on  back.) 
DICK  (speaking  as  Tie  comes  down).     If  there's  any  fun, 

let  me  share  it. 
TOM.     Ah,  Dick ! 
DICK.     Tom  (they  shake  hands),  you  brought  the  sunlight 

with  you  ? 


THE    LOST    MINE.  IQ 

TOM.     Yes,  Dick  :  Mosey's  safe  and  well. 

DICK.  Tom,  the  old  hole's  petered  out.  (Takes  off  knap- 
sack, and  drops  it  near  rock  R.  c.)  I've  dug  and  panned  for 
a  week,  and  not  an  ounce  of  dust. 

TOM.     That's  bad  ;  but  better  luck  next  time. 

DICK.  Luck !  Not  while  you  hold  to  such  an  unlucky 
partner  as  I.  Tom  Carew,  I  never  met  a  man  I  so  much 
admired  as  I  do  you.  When  I  dropped  into  this  camp,  a 
stranger,  without  a  penny,  you  took  me  by  the  hand,  let  me 
in  to  your  claim,  an  equal  partner, —  the  best  paying  claim 
in  the'  camp,  —  till  I  struck  it;  since  then  we  haven't  panned 
enough  to  pay  for  bacon.  It's  my  infernal  luck.  I  wouldn't 
care  for  myself,  but  to  blast  your  prospects  of  a  rich  find  — 

TOM.  Hold  on,  Dick.  You  complain  of  bad  luck,  —  you 
whom  Moselle  loves. 

DICK.     That's  another  matter. 

TOM.     Right.     The  pure  ore  of  a  loving  heart 
be  compared  to  the  glittering  lie  we  take  to  oursel 
which  to  purchase  happiness.    The  one  purifies  and  e 
its  possessor,  the  other  too  often  drags  us  down  to  t 
from  which  we  filch  it. 

DICK.  Sentimental,  Tom  ?  Why,  what's  come  over 
you  ? 

TOM.  A  woman.  No,  an  angel.  Dick,  the  sweetest 
woman  you  ever  set  eyes  on. 

DICK.     That's  Moselle. 

TOM,     Oh,  you're  blind  ! 

DICK.  And  you  expect  me  to  see  through  your  eyes? 
Well,  who  is  this  paragon  ? 

TOM.  Moselle's  friend,  who  came  home  with  her  to-day. 
I  have  only  met  her  once.  She  is  all  grace  and  beauty,  and, 
I'll  swear,  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful.  If  I  could  only  win 
her,  Dick. 

DICK.     Well,  what's  to  prevent  ? 

TOM.     I  am  only  a  poor  miner,  and  she  — 

DICK.  A  poor  judge  of  manhood,  if  she  takes  you  at 
your  own  valuation.  Send  her  to  me :  I'll  tell  her,  that  if 
she  wants  a  warm  heart,  a  determined  spirit,  and  a  courageous 
arm,  she  will  find  them  in  Tom  Carew,  who,  in  those  virtues, 
stands  head  and  shoulders  above  all  the  miners  of  Nevada. 
I  suppose  that  is  her  picture  you  are  nursing  so  carefully  in 
your  belt. 


20  THE   LOST    MINE. 

TOM.  No  :  that  is  a  poor  devil  whom  a  detective  is  track- 
ing. 

DICK.     Ah  !  let's  have  a  look  at  him.    (Takes picture.} 

TOM.  A  detective  was  here  an  hour  ago ;  but  it's  not  one 
of  our  boys.  (Turns  away  to  L.) 

DICK  (looks  at  picture,  starts,  but  instantly  recovers  him- 
self as  TOM  turns).  No :  he's  none  of  us. 

TOM.     Not  a  bad  face  ? 

DICK.  No,  but  a  weak  one.  A  good  subject  for  some 
designing  villain  to  make  a  victim  of.  (Hands  it  back,  TOM 
replaces  it  in  belt.} 

(MOSELLE  runs  on  from  cabin} 

MOSELLE.     Now  for  a  run. 

DICK.     Right  into  my  arms. 

MOSELLE  (runs  into  his  arms}.  Why,  Dick,  I  never 
thought  of  seeing  you. 

DICK.     But  you're  glad  to  see  me  again  ? 

MOSELLE.  O  Dick!  you  know  I'd  rather  meet  you  than 
any  other  here  (sees  TOM,  draws  away  from  DICK,  and  casts 
down  her  eyes},  except  Tom. 

TOM.     Humbug! 

MOSELLE.  And  Tom  is  lost  to  me.  Poor  Tom !  He's 
discovered  a  wonderful  nugget.  It's  in  our  cabin  now  ;  and 
Tom  is  so  worried  that  he's  been  watching  the  door  ever 
since  it  was  deposited  there,  for  fear  some  one  should  steal 
it.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

TOM.  I  was  only  waiting  till  you  should  appear  to  keep 
Dick  company.  Now  I'm  off.  (Goes  to  R.  2  E.) 

MOSELLE.  Don't  be  gone  long,  Tom,  we  shall  be  so- 
lonesome  without  you. 

TOM.  Oh,  have  your  little  love-feast!  I'll  be  back  in 
time. 

MOSELLE.     In  time  for  what  ? 

TOM.     To  count  the  spoons.     (Exit  R.  2  E.) 

MOSELLE.     Now,  what  does  he  mean  by  that  ? 

DICK.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  unless  he  expects  you  and 
I  to  — 

MOSELLE  (holding  up  her  finger  threateningly).     Beware  ! 

DICK.  Exactly.  Beware  silver  ware,  spoons.  (Puts  arm 
about  her  waist.} 

MOSELLE  (slips  away).    Oh,  drop  the  spoons ! 

DICK.     But  you  dropped  my  arm. 


THE    LOST    MINE.  21 

MOSELLE.     I  like  freedom. 

DICK.     Then,  why  do  you  run  away  from  me  ? 

MOSELLE.  To  catch  my  breath.  Freedom  is  a  virtue. 
You  make  it  a  vice. 

DICK.  Ah  !  but  remember,  I  haven't  seen  you  for  three 
months.  Think  of  the  lonely  hours  without  you. 

MOSELLE.  Think  of  my  lonely  hours  over  those  horrid 
studies,  —  geography,  history,  arithmetic  !  One  and  one  are 
two. 

DICK  (again  slipping  his  arm  about  her  waist).  No  :  one 
and  one  are  one. 

MOSELLE.  You're  wrong,  Dick:  one  and  one  are  still 
one  and  (slips  away)  one. 

DICK.     Moselle,  I'm  afraid  you'll  never  be  won. 

MOSELLE.     Not  by  arithmetic.     I  hate  figures. 

DICK.     I  admire  yours. 

MOSELLE.     Do  you,  Dick  ?    What !  in  these  rags  ? 
you  should  see  me  in  regimentals. 

DICK.     Regimentals  ? 

MOSELLE.     Yes  :   silks   and   satins,   kids   and   lace 
Madam  Ferule  turns  us  out  for  inspection. 

DICK.     I  should  like  that. 

MOSELLE.  I  hate  it.  Give  me  a  gown  like  this,  that 
shows  the  honorable  tears  of  contact  with  briers  and  rocks; 
a  pair  of  boots  like  these,  that  won't  slip  on  the  bark  of 
trees,  —  and  I'm  just  jolly.  I  can  run,  climb,  fly.  And  here 
I  am  wasting  time.  I  can  stand  still  no  longer.  I'm  off 
(Jlies  up  run) :  catch  me  if  you  can. 

DICK.     Moselle ! 

MOSELLE  (stops  and  turns}.    Well,  Dick  ? 

DICK.  Good-by.  In  a  few  moments  I  shall  have  left  the 
camp. 

MOSELLE  (coming down}.     Left  the  camp!  why? 

DICK.  That  is  my  secret:  you  may  hear  bad  report  of 
me,  may  be  told  to  shun  me,  taught  to  despise  me ;  but, 
Moselle,  believe  me,  I  love  you,  and  will  one  day  ask  you  to 
be  my  wife. 

MOSELLE.     Your  wife  !     Dick,  who  are  you  ? 

DICK.  Still  Dick,  or  Dandy  Dick  as  the  boys  style  me : 
the  other,  an  honored  name,  must  still  be  withheld,  even 
from  you.  ,You  see,  I  am  frank  with  you. 

MOSELLE.     Frank  !  you  tell  me  nothing. 


22  THE    LOST    MINE. 


DICK.     Exactly ;  but  I  love  you. 

MOSELLE.  You  needn't  have  told  me:  I  knew  it  long 
ago. 

DICK.     And  I  may  hope? 

MOSELLE.     Yes,  on  6ne  condition. 

DICK.     Name  it. 

MOSELLE  (darting  up  run).  That  you  catch  me  before  I 
reach  the  big  bowlder. 

DICK.     Catch  me  losing  you.     (Exit  up  run) 

(Enter  TOM.  R.  2  E.) 

TOM.  Dick,  where's  my  knife  ?  (Looks  roitnd.)  Gone  ! 
he  cabin  is  upside  down,  no  hatchet,  no  knife ;  nice  house- 
keeper to  leave  when  one  goes  a  journey.  There's  his  pack, 
and  I  want  my  knife ;  so,  Master  Dick,  by  your  leave  — 
(Picks  up  pack,  and  is  at  work  on  the  strap  j  enter  AGNES 
from  cabin.) 

AGNES.     I  wonder  what  keeps  Moselle. 

TOM  (rises,  and  removes  his  hat).     Miss  Fairlee  ! 

AGNES.     O  Mr.  Carew  !  the  very  man  I  was  thinking  of. 

TOM.  Were  you?  That's  odd  —  no,  even  —  for  I  was 
thinking  of  you  :  in  fact,  I've  done  little  else  but  think  of  you. 
(Confused,  takes  up  pack.)  No:  I  don't  mean  that  —  con- 
found this  strap  !  — you  see,  my  partner  has  left  every  thing 
in  confusion  :  he's  no  housekeeper. 

AGNES.  Did  you  ever  know  a  man  that  was  ?  You  need 
a  wife,  Mr.  Carew. 

TOM.     I  know  it:  that's  the  reason  I  was  thinking  of  you. 

AGNES  (laughs).  You're  the  tenth  miner  who  has  said 
the  same  thing  to  me  within  a  month. 

TOM.     Only  ten  ?  well,  it's  been  a  pretty  bad  month. 

AGNES.     I  hope  not. 

TOM.  Yes :  the  boys  are  off  in  their  holes.  Wait  a  few 
days,  and  the  air  will  be  black  with  matrimonial  speculators. 

AGNES.     Then,  I  think  I'd  better  be  leaving. 

TOM.  Good  fellows,  too,  who  will  make  their  advances 
timidly,  and  feel  relieved  when  they  are  put  out  of  their  mis- 
ery by  a  refusal. 

AGNES.    All  of  them  ? 

TOM  (dropping  pack).  No :  for  here  and  there  among 
miners,  as  among  men  in  every  station,  you  will  find  one 
who  looks  upon  women  as  pure  gold ;  as'  something  to  be 
approached  with  reverence,  and,  if  won,  to  be  enshrined  in 
the  devotion  of  a  life. 


THE   LOST   MINE.  23 

AGNES.     Such  men  are  scarce. 

TOM.  And  such  women  plenty,  but  they  don't  come  this 
way  often. 

AGNES.     Did  ever  such  a  woman  cross  your  path  ? 

TOM.  (sighs}.     In  my  dreams. 

AGNES  (laughs).  A  visionary  woman.  Do  you  see  her 
often  ? 

TOM.     As  often  as  I  see  you. 

AGNES  (turns  away  confused.  Aside).  This  must  go  no 
farther.  (Alottd.)  Mr.  Carew,  would  you  do  me  a  service? 

TOM.     Willingly. 

AGNES.  A  very  dear  friend,  one  to  whom  I  am  in  duty 
bound,  has  left  his  home  and  friends.  I  have  reason  to  be- 
lieve he  is  in  this  part  of  the  country.  Will  you  help  me 
find  him? 

TOM  (agitated).     Very  dear  to  you  ? 

AGNES  (casting  down  her  eyes).     Yes. 

TOM  (after  a  struggle).     His  name  ? 

AGNES.  I  cannot  tell  you  that :  I  cannot  even  give  you 
the  name  by  which  he  is  known. 

TOM.     Then,  how  am  I  to  discover  him  ? 

AGNES.  You  have  my  name :  go  among  the  miners,  tell 
them  of  me  and  my  quest.  He  will  hear  of  me,  and,  in  spite 
of  dangers  that  beset  him,  will  find  some  way  to  meet  me. 

TOM.     You  set  me  a  hard  task. 

AGNES.  But  you  will  make  the  attempt  ?  O  Mr.  Carew ! 
if  you  could  look  into  that  once  happy  home,  now  desolate 
by  the  absence  of  a  son,  for  whom  a  fond  mother  is  slowly 
but  surely  breaking  her  heart,  a  loving  sister  mourning,  and 
I  —  I  would  give  the  world  to  reclaim  !  (Weeps.) 

TOM.  He  shall  be  found.  I'll  seek  him.  Your  name 
shall  be  the  spell  to  conjure  him  from  his  hiding-place,  were 
he  in  the  deepest  mine  of  Nevada. 

AGNES.  Oh,  thanks,  thanks  !  I  knew  that  in  you  I  should 
find  a  friend,  a  helper. 

TOM  (bitterly).  Rare  confidence,  when  you  have  known 
me  but  a  day. 

AGNES.  Longer  than  that.  Your  brave  acts,  the  generous 
promptings  of  your  true  and  noble  heart,  have  been  morning 
lessons  to  me  for  many  a  day. 

TOM.  You  speak  in  riddles.  Where  have  you  heard 
aught  of  me  ? 


24  THE    LOST    MINE. 

AGNES.  From  Moselle,  who  believes,  were  she  in  danger, 
you  would  never  forsake  her.  From  her  eloquent  thankful- 
ness of  heart,  I  was  led  to  hope  that  I,  too,  might  find  a 
champion  in  you. 

TOM.  Thank  you.  You  were  right.  I  will  serve  you 
faithfully. 

AGNES  (giving  him  her  hand}.  Thank  you.  (Looks  into 
his  face,  then  casts  down  her  eyes,  and  slowly  exits  into 
cabin.} 

TOM  (stands  looking  after  her,  then  looks  at  the  hand  she 
took,  then  sighs}.  "  One  who  is  very  dear  to  me."  She  said 
that,  —  said'it  calmly,  never  dreaming  of  the  crushing  force 
with  which  those  words  fell.  One  very —  He  is  her  lover, 
perhaps  her  husband.  And  I  —  I  love  her.  (Sighs}  Well, 
old  boy,  you've  struck  a  blind  lead  this  time.  No  pay-dirt 
here  ;  and  yet,  I'll  swear  there  was  something  in  those  sweet 
eyes  of  hers.  (Sighs}  I  must  forget  her.  I'll  quit  the 
camp,  get  far  away^  and  then  —  no,  I  have  promised  to  serve 
her,  and  I'll  do  it.  Bring  him  to  her  arms.  (Sighs }  Not  a 
pleasant  task  ;  but  I'll  do  it,  I'll  do  it.  (Goes  to  pack}  Now 
for  my  knife.  (Opens  pack,  pulls  out  blanket}  There's  no 
knife  here.  (Unrolls  blanket.  Silting  on  rock,  photograph 
drops  out )  What's  this  ?  A  picture  !  (Looks  at  it,  rises} 
It's  Agnes,  Agnes  Fairlee;  and  he,  Dick,  is  the  runaway,  her 
lover,  perhaps  her  husband,  Fairlee?  (Pulls  other  picture 
from  belt}  Why,  this  (looks  at  it  closely]  is  Dick.  Put  a 
beard  on  that  face,  and  'tis  Dick  the  forger.  I  sha'n't  have 
to  go  far  to  find  him;  and  he  and  I  both  love  the  same 
woman.  One  word  to  that  detective,  he  is  in  prison  and  she 
is  free.  Well,  I  must  be  pretty  far  gone  to  harbor  such  a 
thought.  Betray  my  partner,  the  man  with  whom  I  have 
eaten  and  slept,  dug  and  quarried  ?  No,  no,  not  for  so  bright 
a  pair  of  eyes  as  yours,  Agnes  Fairlee. 

DICK  (outside).     Moselle,  where  are  you? 

MOSELLE  (laughing).  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Seek  and  find,  seek 
and  find. 

TOM.  Ah  !  I  had  forgotten  our  Moselle.  She  loves  him  ; 
and  he,  villain  that  he  is,  has  trifled  with  her.  She  must  be 
protected,  saved,  though  justice  overtake  him.  (Darts  up 
run} 

(Enter  JUBE,  R.  2  E.) 

JUBE.    Say,  Tom,  Thomas,  whar's  de  fire?    Say!  so  he's 


THE    LOST    MINE.  2$ 

off:  yas,  so's  ole  Vermont.  Nebber  did  see  sich  carrin's  on 
in  de  'hole  course  ob  my  life.  Jcs  took  dat  ar  tender  hoof, 
de  whitewashes  into  his  cabin,  gib  him  de  best  cheer,  —  on 
de  floor, — de  best  china,  den  L\\  him  up  wid  bacon,  chock  up 
tode  muzzle:  den  tender  hoof  was  tired  —  too  much  bacon — 
Liid  down  on  de  bench,  an'  went  to  sleep,  ole  man  settin'  dar 
watchin'  him.  Bym-by  de  ole  man  get  up  sofly,  git  a  blankit, 
kivers  him  up,  tucks  him  in.  Seed  it  all  fro  a  crack.  Ole 
man  jes  clean  gone  on  dat  ar  tender  hoof. 

(Enter  MOTHER,  from  cabin.) 

MOTHER.     Jube,  where's  Moselle  ? 

JURE.     Oh,  she's  in  anoder  scrape. 

MOTHER.     What  kind  of  a  scrape  ? 

JURE.  Candy-scrape,  I  guess.  She  an'  Dandy  Dick  havin' 
a  sweet  time  up  dar  onto  de  rocks. 

MOSELLE  (coming  down  run).  O  mother,  mother! 
(Throws  Jier  arms  a>!out  MOTHER'S  neck) 

MOTHER.     Why,  what's  the  matter,  child? 

MOSELLE.     Don't  ask  me.     Look  there. 

(Enter  down  run.   DICK,  his  ha)ids  fastened  behind  him, 
headdown,  followed  by  JERDEX,  with  a  pistol  in  his  Jiand) 

JERDEX.  Attempt  escape,  and  you  are  a  dead  man. 
(DiCK  comes  slowly  down,  goes  R.,  and  sits  on  rock.  JERDEN 
stands  beside  him.) 

JUBE.     By  golly,  he's  took  ! 

(Enter  VERMONT,  R,  2  E.) 

VERMONT.     Who's  took  ? 

JUBE.     Dandy  Dick.     He's  de  twenty  fousan  feller. 

VERMONT.     Ah !  we've  a  traitor  in  the  camp.     Who  has 
done  this  ?     (Crosses  to  L  ) 
'  V,-  TOM  (descends  run}.     Tom  Carew. 

'  VERMONT.  You,  Tom?  (Levels  pistol)  Then,  take 
that. 

MOSELLE  (throws  herself  before  TOM).  No,  daddy,  not 
Tom.  O  Tom  !  why  have  you  done  this  ? 

TOM.     For  your  sake,  little  one  :  he  has  deceived  you. 

DICK.     'Tis  false ! 

(Enter  AGXES,  from  cabin) 

AGNES.  Who's  that  ?  Ah  !  (Runs  across  stage,  and  falls 
on  DICK'S  neck)  Richard  ! 

DICK.     Agnes ! 

TOM.     Look  there,  Moselle.    (Points  to  DICK.) 


26  THE   LOST    MINE. 

MOSELLE.    No,  no!    (Throws  herself  into  VERMONT'S 

arms.}     O  daddy,  my  heart  is  breaking  ! 

(CURTAIN  ON  PICTURE.  —  TOM  c.,  points  to  DICK.  AGNES 
kneeling,  her  arms  about  DICK'S  neck.  JERDEN  behind 
them.  JUBE  L.  c.,  scratching  his  head.  MOTHER  at  door 
L.,  her  hands  clasped,  looking  at  DICK.  VERMONT  with 
MOSELLE'S  arms  about  his  neck  L.) 


THE  LOST   MINE. 


ACT  II.  —  Interior  of  VERMONT'S  cabin  of  rough  logs,  door 
c.,  window  with  swinging  shutter  L.  c.  mountain,  wood 
and  rocks  as  in  ACT  L ;  fireplace  R.,  with  fire;  stool  near. 
Table  L.  c.,  with  stools  R.  and  L.  of  it.  Bench  R.,  near 
first  entrance,  on  which  DICK  is  discovered  asleep,  covered 
with  a  blanket.  JERDEN  sitting  R.  of  table  watching 
DICK;  WIN-KYE  at  window,  looking  in  y  candle  burning 
on  table.  Lights  down. 

Wix-KYE.  All  ligh' !  Catchee  man,  and  man  he  catchee : 
all  ligh'.  Jube  he  say  'Win-Kye  watchee  catchee  man; 
no  let  catchee  man  kille  man  he  catchee.'  Gollee !  me 
pleceman :  all  ligh'. 

JERDEX.  How  he  sleeps  !  No  wonder,  poor  devil  ! 
These  miners  are  any  thing  but  sociable,  when  the  officers 
of  the  law  are  to  be  entertained.  Every  cabin  shut  against 
us.  Fortunately  old  Vermont  took  himself  off  to-night ;  and 
I've  taken  possession,  no  doubt  to  be  turned  out  on  his 
return.  This  beard's  mighty  uncomfortable.  (Takes  off 
beard,  and  lays  it  on  table?) 

Wix-KYE.  Ki,  yi !  Catchee  man  shabee  click,  no  soapee, 
no  lazor. 

JERDEN.  He  little  dreams  who  his  captor  is.  Curse  him  ! 
he  stood  between  me  and  the  dearest  wish  of  my  life ;  but  I 
have  him  now.  A  rare  streak  of  luck.  I  forged  the  check 
he  bungled  with.  Like  a  fool,  he  cut  and  run.  That  was 
all  right,  for  had  he  faced  the  music  it  might  have  been  hot 
for  me  ;  but  she,  Agnes  Fairlee,  she,  too,  disappeared.  I  had 
risked  all  for  nothing.  But  as  Jerden,  the  detective,  I  have 
tracked  him,  and  found  her.  Now  let  me  get  him  away 
from  here  :  she  will  follow,  and  then —  (DiCK  moves?)  Ah  ! 
(Hastily  replaces  beard.} 

WIX-KYE.  Catchee  man  flaid  he  catchee  cold.  Sh ! 
schooiemarm.  Me  hoppee  stick.  (Runs  by  door,  and  exit 

R.) 


28  THE    LOST    MINE. 

JERDEN  (rises).    Ah !  who's  there  ? 

(Enter,  past  window  through  door,  AGNES.) 

AGNES  (at  door}.     May  I  speak  with  your  prisoner? 

JERDEN  (bows).  I  hate  to  refuse  a  lady ;  but  my  orders 
are,  to  let  none  communicate  with  him  until  he  is  placed  in 
jail. 

AGNES.     In  jail  ? 

JERDEN.  Still,  as  you  seem  to  be  a  very  dear  friend  of 
his  — 

AGNES.     You  will  grant  my  request? 

JERDEN.  If  you  will  give  me  your  word  he  shall  not 
escape. 

AGNES.    You  will  leave  us  alone  ? 

JERDEN.     Certainly. 

AGNES.     I  give  you  my  pledge  he  shall  not  escape. 

JERDEN  (goes  up).  Then,  I  will  retire  —  out  of  hearing, 
but  not  out  of  sight.  My  eyes  will  still  be  upon  him  ;  and,  if 
he  attempts  flight,  a  well-aimed  bullet  shall  be  the  signal  for 
my  return.  (Exit past  window  cffL.) 

(AGNES  looks  after  him,  then  comes  down,  and  taps  DICK  on 
shoulder^) 

AGNES.     Richard ! 

DICK  (starting  up).  No,  no,  Moselle,  'tis  false,  false. 
(Rubs  his  eyes.)  Ah  !  Agnes,  is  it  you  ? 

AGNES.  Yes,  Richard.  How  can  you  sleep  at  such  a 
time  ? 

DICK.  At  such  a  time?  It  is  the  first  real  rest  I  have 
had  for  a  year.  Agnes,  if  you  had  skulked  and  hid  as  I 
have,  if  you  had  started  from  sleep  at  every  sound,  had 
trembled  at  the  approach  of  every  stranger,  had  feared  an 
enemy  would  spring  from  every  bush  you  passed,  you  would 
know  what  a  blessed  relief  it  is  to  feel  that  all  is  over. 

AGNES  (sits  on  stool  R.  of  table).  Then,  why  did  you  fly 
from  justice  ? 

DICK.  Because  I  was  a  coward.  Afraid  to  face  that 
same  justice,  and  so  have  suffered  more  torments  than  even 
her  sternest  sentence  would  have  inflicted.  Now  I  am 
going  back  to  face  her,  and  proclaim  my  innocence. 

AGNES.     Your  innocence  ? 

DICK.     Have  you  ever  doubted  it? 

AGNES.  Yes.  Your  strange  flight,  your  silence  for  a 
year,  the  circumstances  — 


THE    LOST    MINE.  2Q 

DICK.  Were  all  against  me.  Agnes,  I  am  suffering  for 
the  crime  of  another.  You  knew  him,  —  Stephen  Corliss. 

AGNES.     Your  friend  ? 

DICK.  So  he  called  himself.  You  know  how  we  became 
acquainted.  He  was  a  friend  of  the  junior  partner  of  the 
firm  of  Gordon,  Green,  &  Co.,  by  whom  I  was  employed. 
He  took  a  fancy  to  me,  invited  me  to  his  rooms,  insisted  on 
my  being  his  companion  in  drives,  to  the  theatres,  and  in 
other  amusements.  It  was  at  his  request  that  I  brought 
him  home,  and  introduced  him  to  you. 

AGNES.  I  never  liked  him :  I  told  you  his  companion- 
ship would  do  you  no  good. 

DICK.  You  did.  One  day  he  asked  me  to  step  round  to 
the  bank,  and  cash  a  check  made  in  his  favor  by  Gordon, 
Green,  £  Co.  It  was  for  twenty  thousand  dollars.  I  was 
not  surprised  at  the  amount ;  as  I  knew  he  was  considered  a 
man  of  wealth,  and  had  large  dealings  with  the  concern.  I 
laughingly  asked  him  if  he  was  not  afraid  to  trust  me  with 
so  large  an  amount,  to  which  he  replied,  "  No :  if  you  are  not 
afraid  to  draw  it."  I  went  to  the  bank,  agreeing  to  meet  him 
at  his  rooms  with  the  money.  On  presenting  it  at  the  bank, 
the  teller  looked  at  the  check  suspiciously,  and  took  it  to  the 
cashier.  One  of  the  clerks  whispered  to  me,  "  Look  out  for 
yourself,  Dick,  that  check's,  a  forgery."  Forgery  !  I  started 
at  the  word :  to  me  it  had  always  been  a  horror.  I  left  the 
bank,  not  knowing  what  I  was  doing.  I  flew  to  Corliss's 
rooms  :  the  door  was  locked,  and  on  it  a  placard,  "  Gone  to 
Europe."  I  turned  and  ran,  that  word  "  forgery "  burning 
into  my  brain,  through  the  city,  out  into  country,  as  if  pursued 
by  tormenting  fiends.  A  fever  attacked  me ;  and,  when  I 
recovered,  I  found  myself  in  the  hands  of  strangers.  Then 
commenced  my  wanderings,  which  have  ended  here  where 
they  should  have  begun,  — in  capture. 

AGNES.  Have  you  never  communicated  with  your  em- 
ployers, avowed  your  innocence  ? 

DICK.     Never. 

AGXES.     Why,  Richard,  you  have  acted  like  a  madman  ! 

DICK.  Haven't  I  ?  Perhaps  the  word  "  Fool  "  would  be 
better.  How  easily  I  might  have  cleared  myself.  How  — 
Oh,  well!  I'm  not  the  first  man  who  has  been  wrecked  on 
the  reefs  of  "  Might  have  been." 

AGXES.     But  this  man's  motive  ?     Why  did  he  act  thus  ? 


30  THE    LOST    MINE. 

DICK.     Because  he  loved  you.     I  was  in  the  way. 

AGNES.  Loved  me  ?  Then,  through  that  love  I  can  save 
you. 

DICK.  Perhaps  you  can,  but  you  shall  not.  I'll  take  my 
chances  with  the  law.  ^ 

AGNES.     I  shall  return  with  you. 

DICK.  No  :  you  must  stay  here  in  the  charge  of  a  friend, 
the  only  man  I  can  trust,  —  Tom  Carew. 

AGNES.     He  your  friend  ?     Why,  he  betrayed  you  ! 

DICK.  So  he  did:  I  forgot  that.  But  then,  he  put  me 
out  of  my  misery,  so  we'll  forgive  him. 

AGNES.     You   may,  but  I,  never.     I    had   begun  to  like 
your  friend.     (TOM  appears  at  window.}     I    thought   him 
good  and  noble  :  1  find  him  base  and  treacherous.     I  hate 
this  Tom  Carew.     (Crosses  to  L.) 

TOM  (aside).  If  you  don't,  you're  not  the  woman  I  thought 
you. 

DICK.  Oh  !  Tom's  a  good  fellow,  only  just  now  he's  in 
love. 

(Enter  TOM,  door  c.) 

TOM  (to  AGNES).  If  he  had  no  other  excuse  than  that, 
he  would  be  what  you  just  now  styled  him,  —  base  and 
treacherous. 

AGNES.  Have  you  not  proved  yourself  so,  betrayed  your 
friend,  deceived  me  ? 

TOM.     Deceived  you  ? 

AGNES.  Did  you  not  promise  to  seek  him  I  sought,  to 
bring  him  to  me?  How  have  you  kept  your  word?  By 
betraying  him  to  the  man  from  whom  I  sought  to  save  him. 
Is  this  a  token  of  your  boasted  regard  for  mothers,  wives, 
and  sisters  ? 

TOM.  Hear  me  before  you  condemn.  In  these  wild 
lands  is  a  tender  flower,  gladdening  the  hearts  of  rough 
miners  by  its  fragrance  and  beauty.  From  its  coming  it  has 
been  fondly  cherished  and  tenderly  cared  for.  Yesterday  it 
was  trampled  in  the  dust  by  one  who  knew  the  fearful  wrong 
he  was  committing. 

DICK.     Ah  !     the  flower  is  Moselle. 

TOM.  And  the  despoiler  you.  That  fact  known  among 
the  miners,  your  life  would  answer  for  it;  but,  knowing tlu-rc 
was  one  to  whom  you  were  very  dear,  for  her  sake  I  checked 
the  first  promptings  of  vengeance,  and  gave  you  into  the 
hands  of  justice. 


THE    LOST    MINE.  31 

DICK.     To  save  me  from  Judge  Lynch.     I  see. 

TOM.     Whose  sentence  you  richly' deserve. 

DICK.     Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.' 

TOM.  Now,  having  saved  you  from  Judge  Lynch,  it  is 
your  turn  to  save  yourself  from  the  detective.  My  horse  is 
tied  outside.  Take  yourself  off. 

AGNES.  No,  you  must  not  attempt  escape :  his  eyes  are 
upon  you.  A  movement,  and  he  will  shoot. 

MOSELLE  (outside).  Ha,  ha,  ha!  (Runs  in  door,  c.) 
Shoot !  I  guess  not,  when  he's  strapped  to  a  tree.  Hear 
him  holler. 

JERDEN  (in  the  distance).     Help  !    Help ! 

DICK.     Moselle,  what  does  this  mean? 

MOSELLE.  Fun!  1  told  you  I  was  all  ready  for  it;  and 
so,  while  Tom  held  the  "catchee  man,"  as  Win  calls  him,  I 
gave  him  the  benefit  of  a  rope. 

DICK.     Hung  him? 

MOSELLE.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  No,  only  quartered  him  —  under 
a  tree. 

TOM.  No\v,  Dick,  off  with  you.  Here's  my  dust  (offers 
bag),  and  the  horse  will  carry  two. 

DICK.  Not  your  dust,  Tom.  I'm  to  have  a  companion: 
who  is  it  ? 

TOM  (with  a  glance  at  Agnes).     Can  you  ask? 

DICK.     I  can.     Moselle,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 

MOSELLE.     Me  ? 

TOM  (seizes  MOSELLE  and  places  her  behind him\  Do 
you  dare,  before  (points  to  AGNES)  the  one  who  has  come 
miles  to  reclaim  you  ?  You  know  where  your  duty  lies. 
Take  her  (takes  AGXES  by  the  hand,  and  'leads  her  up  to 
DICK),  and  away ! 

DICK.     What !     Run  off  with  my  own  sister? 

TOM  (staggering back  to  window).     Sister? 

MOSELLE.  His  sister!  Ain't  this  jolly!  O  Dick! 
(Runs  into  his  arms.}  I'm  just  dying  for  a  run. 

DICK.  Then,  off  we  go.  (Exit  door  c.,  with  arm  about 
MOSELLE.) 

TOM.  His  sister  !  (AGXES  sits  L.  of  table,  throws  he*- 
arms  on  table,  face  on  her  arms.}  Well,  Tom  Carew,  you've 
struck  bed-rock  now,  and  no  mistake.  His  sister ;  and  there 
she  is,  grieving,  because  he's  gone.  (Comes  down  R.)  And 
she  hates  me.  "  I  had  just  begun  to  like  your  friend."  Hang 


32  THE    LOST    MINE. 

it !  and  I,  like  a  blamed  mule,  have  kicked  over  the  pan,  and 
scattered  the  dust.  (Sits  R.  of  table,  puts  his  arms  on  it, 
looks  at  AGNES  a  moment,  then  puts  his  face  down  on  his 
arms.  AGNES  looks  up,  smiling,} 

AGNES  (aside).  He  is  a  good  fellow:  onlv,  as  Dick  says, 
he's  in  love.  (TOM  raises  his  head.  She  quickly  drops  hers, 
as  before.) 

TOM.  I  wish  I  could  say  something  to  comfort  her  ;  but 
no:  she  hates  me.  (Drops  as  before.  She  raises  her  head.) 

AGNES.  How  nobly  he  has  acted,  good  fellow !  Better 
than  that,  —  he's  noble  !  (ToM  moves.  She  drops  her  head. 
After  a  pause,  both  heads  raised  at  the  same  time.) 

AGNES  (smiling).     Have  you  been  dreaming,  Mr.  Carew  ? 

TOM.     I  wish  I  had. 

AGNES.  Dreaming  of  "the  tender  flower  that  gladdened 
the  hearts  of  the  rough  miners,"  or  of  "  the  visionary 
woman"  ? 

TOM.  Whom  I  see  when  I  look  at  you.  And  you  hate 
me. 

AGNES.     No !     I  admire  you. 

TOM  (rising).     MissFairlee! 

AGNES  (rising).  You  have  saved  my  brother  from  a  hor- 
rible death.  You  have  offered  him  the 'means  of  escape. 

TOM.     He  will  escape  :  my  horse  is  swift. 

AGNES.  No !  He  is  innocent  of  crime,  so  will  not  make 
the  attempt.  He  is  probably  now  in  the  hands  of  the  de- 
tective. 

TOM.     But  he  went  with  Moselle. 

AGNES.     Yes,  to  free  the  detective. 

TOM.  Well,  I've  blundered  again.  And  you  are  his  sis- 
ter. I  never  dreamed  of  that.  Ah,  if  I  had  a  sister ! 

AGNES.     You  would  be  very  fond  of  her  ? 

TOM.     Indeed  I  should. 

AGNKS.  Well,  as  you  have  none,  and  you  are  Dick's  part- 
ner, why  shouldn't  \ou  he  fond  of  his  sister? 

TOM.     Miss  Fairlee  !     Agnes! —    May  I  call  you  Agnes? 

AGNES.     Dick  does,  and  you  are  his  partner. 

TOM.     Agnes,  I  love  you. 

AGNES.     And  I  love  — 

TOM  (holding  out  his  hands).     Well  ? 

AGNES.     To  have  you  love  me.    (Walks  into  his  arms.) 

TOM  (clasping).     Oh,  I've  found  a  nugget! 


THE    LOST    MINE.  33 

(Enter  MOSELLE,  c.) 

MOSELLE.  Lucky  Tom.  How  much  does  it  weigh  ? 
(AcxES  and  TOM  separate?)  What  are  you  doing  with  my 
teacher,  Tom?  Has  she  set  you  conjugating?  I  love — 
you  love  —  or  do  you  both  love  ?  I  guess  if  you'd  had  as 
.much  of  that  as  I  had,  you'd  want  a  vacation. 

TOM.     Well,  we've  been  considering  Dick's  case. 

MOSELLE.  And  Dick's  settled  his  case  by  giving  himself 
up  to  the  detective,  whom  he  mag-nan-5-mously —  that's  a  big 
word  :  hope  I  got  it  right  —  set  free  from  the  tree  ;  and  here 
they  are. 

(Enter  DICK  and  JERDEX.) 

JERDEN  (approaching  TOM  threateningly].  So,  you  are 
the  one  with  whom  I  am  to  settle. 

TOM.  Yes:  I'm  the  one  (presenting  pistol},  and  here's 
the  other. 

JERDEN  (retreating}.     Take  care  :  that  might  go  off. 

TOM.  I'm  afraid  it  will,  if  you  don't.  Hark  you,  stranger! 
I  gave  Dick  up  under  a  mistake;  and  I'm  afraid,  that,  when 
the  boys  find  it  out,  you'll  have  hard  work  to  get  away.  So, 
what's'your  figger? 

JERDEN.     1  don't  understand  you. 

TOM.  No?  And  you  call  yourself  a  detective.  When 
banks  send  out  detectives,  they  want  the  rogue  and  the 
money.  When  they  can  t  have  both,  they'll  take  one.  You 
can't  have  Dick ;  so,  what's  the  figger  ? 

JERDEN.     Twenty  thousand  dollars. 

TOM.  Twenty !  Look  here,  stranger,  ain't  you  settin'  it 
a  leetle  high  ?  There's  not  so  much  money  in  the  whole 
camp. 

JERDEN  (aside).  So  I  thought.  He's  mine.  (Aloud.} 
That's  the  sum.  If  you  can't  pay  it,  I  take  my  man. 

TOM.     Never. 

DICK.  Oh,  yes,  he  will !  I'm  a  little  anxious  to  get  East, 
and  he'll  pay  the  travelling  expenses. 

TOM.  Well,  you  are  a  cool  one ;  but  you  just  wait  until 
I  can  wake  up  some  of  the  boys.  I  shouldn't  wonder  — 
No.  no.  Twenty  — 

AGXES  (to  TOM).    Don't  interfere,  Tom:  Dick's  innocent. 

TOM.     All  right,  if  you  say  so. 

AGNES.  Moselle,  we  must  go.  Dick,  will  you  walk  with 
me  ?  I've  something  particular  to  say  to  you. 


34  THE   LOST    MINE. 

DICK.     If  Mr.  Jerden  makes  no  objection. 

JERDEN.     All  right.     I'll  follow. 

DICK.  Of  course.  (Gives  arm  to  AGNES,  and  goes  to 
door.} 

AGNES.     Good-night,  Tom. 

TOM.     Good-night,  Agnes. 

DICK.     Agnes!     Tom,  you  haven't  — 

TOM.  Oh,  yes,  I  have!  Rich  find.  A  nugget,  Dick. 
She's  mine. 

MOSELLE.     Yes,  Dick  :   I  caught  them  ;;//;/^ing. 

JERDEN  (aside}.     Ah  !  I  have  a  rival  here. 

DICK.  Tom,  old  boy,  it's  glorious:  you  were  made  for 
each  other.  (Exit  witJi  AGNES,  door  c.) 

MOSELLE.     Tom,  hunt  up  daddy:  he's  lots  of  dust. 

JEKDEN.     Miss  Moselle,  shall  I  attend  you  ? 

MOSELLE.    You? 

TOM.     No:  Moselle  goes  with  me. 

MOSELLE.  No,  Tom,  you  look  out  for  daddy.  Come, 
Mr.  Jerden,  I'm  your  prisoner. 

JERDEN  (offers  arm}.     Prisoner? 

MOSELLE  (taking  his  arm}.  Why- not?  One  good  turn 
deserves  another:  you  were  mine  a  little  while  ago,  now  I 
am  yours  :  ha,  ha,  ha !  how  you  did  struggle  to  escape  ! 

JERDEN.  Ah  !  that  was  clever.  Do  you  know,  I  would 
like  to  present  you  with  something  for  that? 

MOSELLE.     With  what,  pray? 

JERDEN.     Something  ladies  are  fond  of. 

MOSELLE.     Oh,  do  tell  me  quick  ! 

JERDEN  (showing  handcuffs}.     Bracelets. 

MOSELLE.     Mercy  !  come  along.     (Exeunt  c.) 

TOM.  Twenty — oh,  it's  no  use  to  think  of  it;  but  I  must 
and  will  find  a  way  to  save  him  ! 

(NEVADA  passes  window  and  enters  door  c.) 

NEVADA  (excitedly}.  Tom  Carew,  Tom,  quick,  rouse  the 
boys:  I've  found  it! 

TOM.     The  mine? 

NEVADA.     Yes,  yes ! 

TOM.  Glory !  Dick's  free.  Yes,  Nevada,  you've  found-  it 
where,  where  ? 

NEVADA.  Hush,  not  so  loud;  we  must  be  secret,  secret: 
while  I  was  asleep  it  all  came  to  me. 

TOM.    Yes. 


THE    LOST    MINE.  35 

NEVADA.  I  saw  the  narrow  path  my  feet  had  made  in 
many  journeys  to  it,  I  saw  the  tunnel  I  had  dug  into  the 
earth,  the  rocks  I  had  blasted,  —  I  can  go  straight  to  it. 
And  then  I  saw,  Tom,  I  saw  an  open  vein  of  running  gold, 
pouring  out  broad  and  deep.  I  dabbled  my  hands  in  it, 
dashed  it  over  my  head,  and  then  — 

TOM.     O  heavens  !  'tis  only  his  madness. 

NEVADA.     I  woke. 

TOM.     To  find  it  but  a  dream. 

NEVADA.  Yes,  yes;  but  there's  luck  in  dreams,  and  I 
shall  find  it.  (Shivers.}  I'm  cold:  may  I  sit  by  the  fire? 

TOM.     Yes,  Nevada. 

NEVADA  (goes  and  sits  by  fire  rubbing  his  hands  and 
warming  them}.  I  like  this,  I  like  to  sit  before  a  fire :  I  can 
see  faces  in  the  fire,  —  her's  and  the  little  one.  See  the  tall 
flame  back  there  ;  that's  her  face,  but  oh  so  haggard  and  pale  ! 
She  thinks  I  will  never  come;  and  see,  there's  a  bright  little 
flame  dancing  up  towards  her,  just  as  the  little  child  used 
to  climb  up  into  her  lap ;  and  there's  the  little  one's  face  now, 
and  her  little  fingers  beckoning  to  me.  Yes,  yes,  I'll  come, 
I'll  come,  with  the  gold  to  make  us  all  happy. 

TOM.     Poor  old  fellow ! 
(Enter  past  window  through  door  c,  SILAS,  his  coat  torn, 

his  hat  out  of  shape,  his   clothes  and  face  daubed  with 

dirt;  paint-pot  in  his  hand.     Singing),  — 
Out  of  the  wilderness, 
Out  of  the  wilderness, 
Ain't  I  glad  I'm  out  of  the  wilderness. 

'In  the  classic  vernacular  of  this  benighted  region,  "  you  bet." 
Oh  for  a  bottle  of  Busted's  Balm !  I'm  sore  from  crown 
to  heel.  (Drops  pail  near  door  R.) 

TOM.  Well,  stranger,  I  should  say  you'd  been  having  a 
rough  and  tumble  with  a  grizzly. 

SILAS.  Wrong,  stranger.  Grizzly  and  I  have  been  hav- 
ing a  "go  as  you  please,"  and  I'm  several  laps  ahead. 

TOM.     Where  did  you  strike  him? 

SILAS.  Strike  him !  Do  you  s'pose  I'm  such  a  fool  as  to 
tackle  a  grizzly  with  his  war-paint  on  ?  I  struck  for  home  :  I 
never  had  such  a  longing  for  the  dearest  spot  on  earth  in  all 
my  life.  You  see,  stranger,  I  started  out  to  do  a  little  em- 
balming for  the  balm:  your  friend  Vermont's  hospitality  and 
bacon  had  made  it  necessary  for  me  to  take  a  little 'exer- 


36  THE    LOST    MINE. 

cise.  Well,  I  took  a  long  constitutional,  practising  a  little 
here  and  there  with  the  brush,  until  I  espied  away  up  a 
bowlder,  —  such  a  bowlder  for  a  six-sheet  poster!  —  that 
seemed  to  offer  uncommon  facilities  for  the  display  of  the 
pronunciamento. 

TOM.     The  what? 

SILAS.  Oh  !  that  staggers  you,  does  it  ?  Well,  that's  high 
jinks  for  the  balm.  It  was  the  wildest  spot  I  ever  scrambled 
through,  the  hardest  climb  I  ever  attempted ;  but  I  reached 
it,  spread  the  balm  in  gigantic  letters,  and  was  just  putting 
a  stop  to  it,  when  the  earth  gave  way,  and  down  I  went.  I 
didn't  have  time  to  take  out  my  watch,  but  I  should  think  it 
was  about  an  hour  before  I  stopped  dropping.  When  I  did, 
I  found  I  was  underground,  evidently  in  a  deserted  mine.  I 
might  have  taken  an  observation;  but  an  ugly  growl  in  the 
interior  convinced  me  that  the  inhabitant  of  that  sequestered 
spot  was  not  at  home  for  company,  so  I  came  out.  A  little 
too  hurriedly  for  good  manners,  perhaps,  but  with  a  celerity 
that  astonished  me,  if  it  didn't  the  grizzly.  (Si'/s  on  bench.) 
Whew  !  such  a  run !  Excuse  me,  stranger,  if  I  stretch  out 
a  bit.  (Lies  on  bench.)  I've  had  enough  of  the  balm  (yawns) 
for  one  day,  now  I'm  going  in  for  a  little  of  the  balmy 
(yawns)  sleep.  Stop  a  bit.  (Raises  himseff.)  Must  look 
out  for  the  dust.  (Takes  bag  from  his  breast,  and  p'aces  it 
under  his  head.  Yawns.)  Such  a  tramp  (yawns)  along  the 
ravine,  three  miles.  (NEVADA,  who  has  been  crouching  look- 
ing into  tJie  fire,  raises  his  head,  and  looks  at  SILAS.)  Then 
over  the  bowlders  to  where  the  big  tree  lies  across  (yawns) 
across  the  creek,  (NEVADA  rises,  and  approaches  stealthily) 
Across  it  to  the  gorge,  beyond  (yawns),  a  good  mile.  (NE- 
VADA still  nearer,  agitated, glaring  at  SILAS.  TOM  seated  R. 
of  table  watches  him.)  And  then' to  the  right  (yawns)',  no, 
to  the —  (Yawns  and  sleeps) 

,  NEVADA.  He's  found  it!  (About  to  rush  upon  SILAS, 
TOM  steps  before  him;  they  struggle,  and  TOM  forces  him 
back  to  door.) 

TOM.     Madman,  what  would  you  do  ? 

NEVADA  (in,  door).  Kill  him.  He  has  struck  the  trail. 
He  would  rob  me  of  my  treasures,  but  I'll  be  before  him. 
Let  him  dare  to  meet  me  there;  let  him  attempt  to  enter, 
and  he  shall  find  old  Nevada  a  giant  defending  his  own. 
His  river  of  gold!  ha,  ha!  The  old  man  has  not  lost  his 


THE    LOST    MINE.  37 

cunning  nor  his  strength.     (Shaking  hisfi st  at  SILAS.)     Be- 
ware of  him  !     (Exit  c.) 

TOM.  Off  again  as  wild  as  ever.  (Comes  down,  and 
looks  at  SILAS.)  Another  moment,  and  he'd  have  been  at 
his  throat.  What  could  have  moved  him  so  ? 

SILAS  (moves}.     Along  the  ravine  — 

TOM  (starts  back}.  Ah  !  that  old  story.  How  often  have 
we  heard  it !  Nevada's  oft-told  story  in  this  stranger's  mouth. 
Has  he  in  truth,  as  Nevada  said,  struck  the  trail  that  leads 
to  the  lost  mine?  Has  he  found  the  clew  to  the  mystery  of 
years  ?  If  he  has,  'tis  marked,  and  should  be  found.  '  There's 
a  fgrtune  for  him  who  strikes  it.  A  fortune  would  set  Dick 
free^  and  make  Agnes  my  wife.  So,  Tom  Carew,  for  love 
and  friendship  try  your  luck,  and  — 

SILAS  (moves  and  mutters}.     Look  out  for  paint. 
\/*rToM.     Right,  stranger.     Where  you   left  your  mark,  I'll 
look  for  gold.     (Exit  c.  and  O/'L.  "  VERMONT  passes  win. 
dow,  and  stops  in  door  looking  after  TOM.) 

VERMONT.  Tom  Carew,  I  reckon,  scootin'  away  like  a 
cotton-tailed  rabbit.  Outer  my  ranch,  tco.  (Comes  down.} 
Can't  find  a  trace  of  that  tender  foot :  he's  shook  me  clean. 
(Sees  SILAS.)  Thar  he  is.  (Sits  R.  of  table.}  •  Blamed  if 
the  chap  ain't  been  underground.  He's  struck  dirt,  and  it 
sticks  to  him.  (Places  elbow  on  knee,  chin  on  hand,  and 
'watches  SILAS.  JUBE  appears  at  window.} 

JUBE.  Golly !  dat  ole  man  means  mischief.  He's  jes' 
been  trailin'  arter  dat  ar  tender  hoof.  What's  de  cunun- 
drum  ?  what  he  want?  Go  slow,  ole  man,  I's  watchin'. 

WiN-KYE  (stealthily  sticking  his  head  in  at  d.wr}.  Paintee 
man  sleepee,  Vellemontee  watchee,  Win-Kye  alle  samee. 

VERMONT.  Sleepin'  jest  like  a  little  kid^  dreaming  of  the 
old  mother  way  down  East.  Well  I  remember  the  time 
when  the  old  boys,  young  then,  used  to  think  of  the  old 
folks,  and  long  for  the  time  to  come  when  they  should  get 
fixed  up  with  clust,  and  go  home.  How  we  did  dream !  and 
what  a  sorter  lonesome  feelin'  would  come  over  us,  and 
then  we'd  get  careless.  They  seemed  so  far  away,  till  news 
would  come  that  somebody  we  knew  had  passed  in  his 
checks,  and  was  farther,  farther  away.  (Draws  his  sleeve 
across  his  eyes.} 

JUBE.  Golly  !  de  ole  man's  crying.  See  de  weeps  !  See 
de  weeps ! 


38  THE   LOST    MINE. 

VERMONT.  Tender  foot  shall  go  back  well  fixed.  I've 
been  watching  for  a  chance,  and  now's  the  time.  (Rises  and 
looks  about  cautiously.  JUBE  and  WIN-KYE  disappear. 
VERMONT  creeps  toward  SILAS.  JUBE  and  WIN-KYE  re- 
appear as  before?) 

JUBE.     What's  de  racket  ? 

VERMONT.  His  bag  of  dust  is  under  his  head.  I  must 
have  it.  (Creeps  nearer,  and  places  his  hand  on  bag.} 

JUBE.  Gwine  to  rob  him  ?  It's  all  out.  Can't  stan' dat. 
Whar's  dat  rebolber?  (points  revolver  at  VERMONT)  ain't 
goin'  to  be  no  foo'  in  dis  yer  camp. 

WIN-KYE  (sees paint-pot  near  door).  Paintee  man,  blushee 
all  light.  Me  paintee  too.  (Takes  brush,  smells  of  it,  makes 
a  wry  face.}  Smelle  stlong.  Smelle  kelosenee.  (VERMONT 
pulls  bag  away?) 

JUBE.  Buglery,  buglery !  but  I's  got  de  bead  on  him; 
jes'  wait  till  he  stows  it  away.  (VERMONT,  on  one  knee, 
takes  a  bag  from  his  breast} 

JUBE.  Dat's  de  game  :  take  out  ob  whosen's  bag,  and  put 
in  hisen  ;  but  —  but  I  got  de  bead  on  him.  (VERMONT  opens 
SILAS'S  bag,  and  pours  dust  from  his  bag  into  it} 

JUBE.  What's  dat  ?  Bar's  some  mistook.  But  I  got  de 
bead  on  him. 

WIN-KYE  (with  brush  creeps  under  the  window}.  Me 
paintee,  Jube,  whitee,  all  ligh'.  (VERMONT  puts  back  his 
bag,  then  about  to  restore  the  other  under  SILAS'S  head ;  as 
he  touches  him,  SILAS  springs  up.  VERMONT  rises  to  Jiis 
feet} 

SILAS  (seizing  him}.  Ah!  would  you?  (They  wrestle; 
and,  with  a  trip,  SILAS  throws  him  back  on  stool  R.  of  table, 
his  back  against  table,  draws  a  revolver  from  his  hip-pocket, 
and  points  it  at  his  head}  Yours  for  health. 

JUBE.  Now,  tangle  hoof  jes'  spoiled  de  fun,  but  he's  got 
cle  bead. 

VERMONT.     Don't  shoot :  I'm  your  dad. 

SILAS.     My  dad? 

JUBE.  Golly  !  de  ole  man's  a  fader.  Ought  to  be 
ashamed  ob  hisself. 

WIX-KYE.  Jubee !  (Crouching,  sticks  brush  straight 
abwe  his  head} 

JUBE.  Well,  was  de  matter?  (Leans  down,  WlN-KYE 
thrusts  the  brush  into  his  face} 


THE    LOST    MINE.  .       39 

WIN-KYE.     Lookee  out  for  paintee.    QUBE  starts  back 

with  a  yell  quick.) 

(CURTAIN  ox  PICTURE.  —  JUBE  grasping  the  window-sill 
with  both  hands,  his  face  contorted,  and  streaked  with 
paint.  WIN-KVE  grinning.  VERMONT  on  stool,  pressed 
back  against  table  by  SILAS'S  hand  on  his  throat^  with 
pistol  pointed^  looking  into  each  other's  faces?) 


4<D  THE   LOST    MINE. 


ACT  III.  —  Same  as  ACT  I.  —  WiN-KYE  enters  down  run, 
carrying  paint-pail  in  one  hand,  brush  in  other. 

WIN-KYE.  Ole  man  talkee,  painteeman  talkee :  all  ligh', 
Win-Kye  walkee,  cally  pail,  inside  he  mouth  he  plenty  cly, 
"lookee  out  fol  paint."  Painteeman,  Chinaman,  alle  same. 

JUBE  (appearing  on  run}.  Win,  you  imp  ob  sin,  you,  you 
Shinghi,  you  jes'  brurig  back  dat  ar  whitewash. 

Wix-KvE.  All  ligh',  Jubee,  me  bling  'em  back,  in  the 
sweetee  bymby. 

JUP.E  (comes  down}.  Look  yere,  you  Celestial  imp,  quit 
yer  fool !  dis  year  ain't  no  time  for  mischievity ;  dis  year  am 
a  solem'  occasion;  de  ole  man's  found  his  long  forgotten 
chile, — his  lost  offsprung, —  an'  —  an'  you've  run  off  wid 
der  baby's  playthings. 

WIN-KYE.  Muchee  solly,  baby  cly.  Supposee  you  sing 
him,  — 

"Littee  Jack  Homer 
Makee  sit  inside  corner, 

Chow-chow  he  Clismas  pie. 
He  put  inside  tu'm, 
Hab  catchee  one  plum. 

Hi,  yah  !  what  one  good  chilo  my  !  " 

JURE.  Golly !  hear  dat  Chineesers  infusions  ob  potrey. 
Dat  all  comes  ob  his  contract  wid  art.  Win-Kye,  gib  me 
dem  ar  'tensils. 

Wix-KYE.  Me  paintee  locks,  me  paintee  tlees,  all  samee 
so.  (Points  at  sign  on  rock.}  "  Washee,  washee."  (Exit 

I  E.  R.) 

JURE.  See  him  hoof  it.  Dis  years  de  melencolic  effect 
ob  tryin'  to  turn  a  mongo  into  a  Sambo.  I's  jes'  tried  to 
cibilize  dat  ar  heathen,  to  gib  him  a  brack  heart;  an'  he  no 
sooner  gits  a  hold  ob  a  paint-brush,  off  he  goes,  like  ole 
Nebacanoozer,  on  a  tear. 


THE    LOST    MINE.  4! 

(Enter  MOSELLE,  frdm  cabin.) 

MOSELLE.    Jube,  have  you  seen  my  daddy  ? 

JUBE.  Seen  your  what?  Golly,  Mosey,  you  took  my  bref 
away  !  Seen  him  !  Well,  I  guess,  Mosey,  clar  was  a  yearth- 
quake  jes'  flopped  ober  dis  year  camp  las'  night:  seed  it, 
seed  it,  felt  de  shock  fro  my  physical  cistern ;  an'  I  guess 
de  ole  man  is  scourin'  round  to  kill  a  fatted  calf  or  a  mule. 

MOSELLE.     What  are  you  talking  about,  Jube  ? 

JUBE.  Mosey,  brace  yerself:  be  a  man.  De  Book  ob 
Rebelation  am  open.  Abigal's  son  am  returned. 

MOSELLE.     Who's  son  ? 

JUBE.  Abigal's  son.  Don't  you  know  what  de  good 
Book  says  ? 

MOSELLE.     The  prodigal  son,  Jube. 

JUBE.  What's  de  dif  ?  what's  de  dif  ?  Dat  gal's  son  am 
returned  to  his  fadder's  buzzum;  and  you're  shook.  You 
may  cry,  "  Hi,  daddy !  ho,  daddy  !  "  but  dar  am  no  daddy. 

MOSELLE.  Jube,  tell  me,  quick,  what  has  happened  to 
daddy  ? 

JUBE.  I'll  tole  yer  all  about  it.  Las'  night  I  went  down 
to  de  ole  man's  ranch  on  perticlar  business.  Well,  de  ole 
man  was  down  dar,  I  was  down  dar,  Win  was  down  dar, 
an'  —  an'  somebody  else  was  down  dar.  Now,  you  know  de 
ole  man  dat  was  down  dar ;  you  know  me  dat  was  down  dar ; 
you  know  Win  dat  was  down  dar;  but  —  but  you  can't  guess 
who  dat  somebody  else  was,  dat  was  down  dar,  to  dat  ar 
ranch  down  dar. 

MOSELLE.  Why  should  I  guess  who  was  down  dar,  when 
you  are  so  anxious  to  tell  me  ? 

JUBE.     Well,  I  tole  yer. 

(Enter  VERMONT,  R.  2  E.) 

VERMONT.     At  your  peril,  Jube. 

MOSELLE.  O  daddy,  here  you  are!  (Crosses  from  L.  to 
R.)  I  was  about  to  hear  something  dreadful  about  you. 

JUBE.  Yas,  indeed.  I  was  jes'  breakin'  to  her,  genteel, 
de  mournful  tidin's. 

VERMONT.  I'll  break  your  head  if  you  say  another  word. 
You  git. 

JUBE.  Yas ;  but  I  got  her  all  braced.  I  can  finish  in  just 
free  minutes.  You  see,  I  was  down  dar  — 

VERMONT.  If  you're  not  up  there  in  less  than  three 
minutes  —  (Puts  hand  behind  him.) 


42  THE    LOST    MINE. 

JUBE  (nms  iip  stage).  Don't  you  do  it,  don't  you  do  it 
I  was  only  goin'  to  say  dat,  dat  somebody  else  down  dar  — 

VERMONT.     Start. 

JUBE.     Was  Abigal's  son.     (Dashes  up  run,  and  off?) 

MOSELLE.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Poor  Jtibe !  He  missed  his 
chance  by  stopping  too  long  "down  dar."  Now,  daddy, 
what's  the  matter?  where's  the  "yearthquake  "  struck? 

VERMONT.     That's  some  of  the  darkey's  nonsense. 

MOSELLE.  Now,  daddy,  that's  a  fib.  Look  me  in  the 
eye.  No.  Stop !  If  it's  any  thing  I  should  know,  you  will 
tell  me :  you've  always  been  so  good  to  me. 

VERMONT.  Well,  never  mind  me.  What  have  they  done 
with  Dandy  Dick,  the  forger? 

MOSELLE.  He's  no  forger.  He's  as  innocent  of  crime 
as  you  are.  O  daddy !  I  want  some  money. 

VERMONT.  All  right,  little  one.  (Pulls  out  bag.)  What's 
the  figger  ? 

MOSELLE.     It's  rather  high. 

VERMONT.     Never  mind:  the  bank's  open. 

MOSELLE.     Twenty  thousand  dollars. 

VERMONT.  Twenty!  Bank's  broke.  (Puts  back  bag.} 
We  ain't  struck  no  diamond  mine  lately,  and  nuggets  are 
scarce.  Couldn't  you  make  a  little  discount  ? 

MOSELLE.  O  daddy !  twenty  thousand  dollars  will  set 
Dick  free. 

VERMONT.  Free !  Not  an  ounce  of  dust  comes  out  of 
my  bag  for  him.  Pic's  played  you  a  mean  trick ;  and,  if  the 
detective  don't  take  him  off,  I  will.  Why,  Mosey,  I  thought 
you  had  more  spirit. 

MOSELLE.     I  love  him,  daddy. 

VERMONT.  And  he  with  another  gal  hanging  round  his 
neck. 

MOSELLE.     Why,  daddy,  she's  his  sister  ! 

VERMONT.  What!  (Aside.)  Another  prodigal!  This 
camp's  getting  lively.  (Algud.)  Mis  sister.  That's  another 
sort. 

MOSELLE.     And  you  will  find  the  money  ? 

VERMONT.  Find  twenty  thousand?  Oh,  yes,  Mosey!  I'll 
take  my  pick,  and  go  right  off.  As  finds  are  about  here,  it 
may  take  a  few  years  — 

MOSELLE.  Years!  We  must  have  it  to-day.  O  daddy, 
you've  plenty  banked  at  Carson  ! 


THE    LOST    MINE.  43 

VERMONT.  Mosey,  when  you  was  a  little  gal,  we  used  to 
sit  down  by  the  creek. 

MOSELLE.  Where  you  found  me,  longer  ago  than  I  can 
remember. 

VERMONT.  We  used  to  sit  there  day  after  day,  while  I 
told  you  stories. 

MOSELLE.     Yes,  fairy  stories. 

VERMONT  (sits  on  rock,  R.).     I'll  tell  you  one  now. 

MOSELLE  (sits  on  the  ground  beside  hitn,  throws  arm 
across  his  knee).  A  fairy  story  ? 

VERMONT.  I  reckon.  Once  on  a  time  there  was  a  gospel 
shebang,  and  in  it  was  a  gospel  sharp  and  a  pan  lifter. 

MOSELLE.     You  mean  a  church,  a  parson,  and  a  deacon  ? 

VERMONT.     That's  just  what  I  mean. 

MOSELLE.  Then,  please  remember,  you  are  talking  to  a 
young  lady,  and  not  to  the  boys. 

VERMONT.  Jes'  so.  Well,  the  parson  and  the  deacon 
didn't  hitch  horses,  —  couldn't  work  in  the  same  hole, — 
were  always  flinging  dirt  all  over  each  other,  whenever  they 
got  to  arguing.  So  one  day  they  had  it  hot  about  wrast- 
ling  Jacob  and  the  angel.  The  deacon  thought  Jacob  didn't 
have  a  fair  show.  He  allowed  that  Jacob,  at  collar  and 
elbow,  would  have  thrown  the  angel  every  round ;  and  the 
parson  got  mad,  and  told  the  deacon  if  he'd  step  behind  the 
she  —  church,  he'd  show  him  the  angel's  trip.  The  deacon 
wa'n't  to  be  stumped  at  wrastlin',  so  at  it  they  went.  Three 
rounds,  and  the  deacon  went  to  grass  every  time.  Now, 
when  a  parson  can  throw  a  deacon,  it  shows  a  backslidin' 
that's  not  healthy.  So  the  deacon  thought,  and  quietly 
packed  his  kit,  and  started  for  green  fields  and  pasters  new, 
leaving  behind  a  wife  and  kids.  Well,  he  struck  jest  about 
such  a  place  as  this,  and  stuck  to  it  twelve  years.  He  didn't 
forget  the  folks  at  home.  Both  his  heart  and  his  dust  went 
back  to  'em,  and  sometimes  he'd  have  given  all  his  old 
boots  for  one  look  at  'em. 

MOSELLE.-    Why  didn't  he  go  back  ? 

VERMONT.  What!  With  that  wrastlin'  angel  bossing 
the  shebang  ?  Not  for  Jacob. 

MOSELLE.     Ho,  ho  !     You  are  the  deacon. 

VERMONT.     I  was.     Now  I'm  only  Vermont. 

MOSELLE.     And  my  daddy. 

VERMONT.  Last  night  I  wrastled  again.  I  was  thrown, 
and  by  a  boy  —  my  kid  —  from  old  Vermont. 


44 


THE    LOST    MINE. 


MOSELLE.    Your  son  ? 

VERMONT.     You  bet. 

MOSELLE.     Oh,  daddy  !   ain't  you  glad  ? 

VERMONT.  Glad !  Why,  Mosey,  he's  got  the  angel  trip, 
by  which  the  parson  threw  me. 

MOSELLE.  But  ain't  you  glad  he's  found  you?  It  must 
be  so  good  to  hear  news  from  home. 

VERMONT.  Well,  Mosey,  you  keep  quiet :  I  don't  want 
the  boys  to  know  he's  my  son.  I've  told  you  — 

MOSELLE.     A  fairy  story.     I  understand. 

VERMONT.     Jes'  so.     A  fairy  story,  without  the  fairy. 

MOSELLE  (rising).  Oh  !  you're  the  fairy,  for  you  are 
always  doing  good.  But  where  is  he?  I  must  see  him. 

VERMONT.     In  my  ranch. 

MOSELLE.  I'll  just  run  down  and  have  a  peep  at  him,- — 
the  boy  who  threw  the  deacon  —  no,  the  fairy.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
(Runs  offK.  2  E.) 

VERMONT.     I  reckon  I'm  a  healthy  old  fairy. 
(Enter  MOTHER,  from  cabin.} 

MOTHER.     Where's  Moselle  ? 

VERMONT.  She's  just  run  down  to  have  a  look  at  the 
kid  — 

MOTHER.     A  look  at  what? 

VERMONT  (aside].  Hang  it !  There's  a  slip  for  the  fairy. 
(Aloud.)  She's  just  run  down  to  my  ranch.  She'll  be  back 
in  a  minute.  Widder,  you  believe  that  story  about  the  creek 
and  Mosey? 

MOTHER.     Certainly. 

VERMONT.     Don't  believe  it  any  longer:  it's  a  blamed  lie. 

MOTHER.     Vermont! 

VERMONT.  That's  me,  and  here's  the  truth.  I  was  dig- 
gin'  in  Goblin  Gulch  in  them  days;  and  one  night  a  woman, 
with  a  child  in  her  arms,  came  to  my  ranch.  Poor  thing! 
she  was  all  used  up  with  tramping.  She  was  looking  for  a 
miner,  —  her  husband,  she  said.  She  told  me  his  name  ;  and 
when  she  found  I  didn't  know  him,  she  jest  dropped  on  the 
ground,  and  died  there.  I  was  alone  with  a  dead  woman 
and  a  live  child,  and  not  another  soul  within  five  miles. 
Well,  widder,  I  was  skeered.  If  I  was  found  with  them,  as 
likely  as  not  I'd  been  lynched  for  murder.  So  I  jest  buried 
the  mother,  an  1  brought  the  child  to  you. 

WIDOW.     What  was  the  name  of  her  husband? 


THE    LOST    MINE.  45 

VERMONT.  Widder,  that's  the  mischief.  Blame  my  old 
wooden  head,  I  couldn't  remember.  That's  why  I  brought 
Mosey  to  you  with  a  lie.  If  I'd  told  the  truth,  that  would 
have  been  the  first  question  you'd  have  asked  me.  If  I 
could  only  remember  that,  —  if 'l  could  only  hear  it  again.  • 

MOTHER.     That  would  be  a  clew  to  Moselle's  parentage. 

VERMONT.  It  will  come  to  me  some  day.  Till  then,  the 
little  one  has  a  daddy  in  old  Vermont. 

MOTHER.     And  a  mother  in  me. 

VERMONT  (holds  out  hand}.  Widder,  put  it  there.  (They 
shake  hands.}  I've  heard  tell  of  some  wimmen  that  banked 
all  their  affections  in  one  buzzum,  and,  when  the  proprietor 
of  that  bank  went  prospecting  among  the  stars,  kept  gather- 
ing the  same  kind  of  gold-dust  for  the  final  deposit.  I 
reckon,  wiclder,  you're  one  of  that  kind.  And  when  you  jine 
your  pardner,  Tom  Merton,  pure  ore  will  be  scarce  in 
Nevada. 

MOTHER.  Ah,  Vermont,  what  a  pity  you're  a  bachelor  ! 
You'd  make  such  a  good  father. 

VERMONT  (confused}.  Well,  yes,  jes'  so.  (Aside.}  What 
will  she  say  when  she  sees  the  kid  ? 

MOTHER.  And  such  a  good  husband  !  When  I  look  at 
you,  it  seems  as  if  I  had  my  dear  old  man  back  again.  Poor 
Tom !  (Puts  apron  to  her  eyes.) 

VERMONT  (looks  at  her,  scratches  his  head}.  Poor  old 
gal !  (Puts  arm  around  her  waist.}  Cheer  up,  widder :  it's 
only  a  little  while,  and  you'll  hear  his  voice  calling  — 

SILAS  (appearing  on  run}.  Say,  dad,  where's  my  paint- 
pot? 

VERMONT.  The  kid !  (fiuns  off  R.  2  E.  MOTHER 
screams,  and  runs  into  cabin.} 

(SILAS  comes  down,  looks  after  MOTHER,  then  after  VER- 
MONT.) 

SILAS.     For  further  particulars  see  small  bills.     After  so 
recent  reminders  of   his  connubial  relations,   it  strikes   me 
that  the  deacon  is  a  little  giddy,  and  the  sooner  he  is  re- 
turned to  the  bosom  of  his  family,  the  better. 
(Enter  MOSELLE,  R.  2  E.) 

MOSELLE.  There  was  no  one  there.  (Sees  SILAS.)  Hallo, 
medicine  man  !  Where's  daddy  ? 

SILAS.     My  daddy? 

MOSELLE.     No:  mine,  —  Vermont. 


46  THE   LOST   MINE. 

SILAS  (aside).  Her  daddy  !  Great  heavings  !  The  dea- 
con's a  Mormon  !  (Aloud.}  So,  Vermont  is  your  daddy? 

MOSELLE.     Why,  certainly.     Didn't  you  know  that? 

SILAS.  Well,  no.  I  haven't  examined  the  family  records 
latJy.  Who's  your  mammy  ? 

MOSELLE.     Mother  Merton. 

SILAS.     Murder! 

MOSELLE.     What's  the  matter? 

SILAS.     That  accounts  for  it. 

MOSELLE.     Accounts  for  what? 

SILAS.  The  very  affecting  embrace  of  an  aged  Romeo 
and  a  mature  Juliet.  I  just  now  interrupted  a  tight  squeeze, 
in  which  your  mammy  was  the  squeezeed,  and  your  daddy  the 
squeezor.' 

MOSELLE.  You  saw  that?  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Won't  the  boys 
be  tickled ! 

SILAS.     Boys  !     Do  you  mean  to  say  there  are  boys  too? 

MOSELLE.     Why,  certainly,  lots  of  them. 

SILAS  (aside).  Great  Scott !  There'll  be  music  in  the 
air,  with  an  anvil  chorus  thrown  in,  when  daddy  goes  march- 
ing home.  (Aloud.)  But  where  do  I  come  in? 

MOSELLE.    You? 

SILAS.  Yes.  For  if  Vermont  is  your  daddy,  and  Mother 
Merton  your  mammy,  and  Deacon  Steele  is  my  father,  and 
Hannah  Steele  is  my  mother,  I  must  belong  somewhere 
among  the  boys  —  of  the  old  boy. 

MOSELLE.  Why,  you  must  be  the  kid  —  Abigal's  son. 
Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

SILAS.  Abigail  (Aside.)  What!  Another  family  spring- 
ing up !  Oh,  this  is  too  much !  Hannah  Steele's  young 
ones  —  Mother  Merton's  boys  —  Abigal's  kid.  The  old 
Turk  !  I  must  get  the  old  man  home. 

MOSELLE.     So  you're  the  boy  that  threw  his  father? 

SILAS.     Threw///;///    Why,  he's  floored  me! 

MOSELLE.  I'm  real  glad  you've  found  him,  he's  so  lone- 
some sometimes.  And  daddy's  got  a  big  heart  that  would 
take  the  whole  world  in. 

SILAS  (aside).  He  seems  to  have  taken  in  a  pretty  big 
slice  of  the  better  half  already. 

MOSELLE.  Now,  you  must  have  great  influence  with 
•  daddy,  and  you  must  help  me  free  Dick. 

SILAS.    Who's  Dick? 


THE    LOST    MINE.  47 

MOSELLE.     One  of  the  boys. 

SILAS  (aside).  Thought  so.  (Aloud.)  Well,  how  can  I 
help  you  free  brother  Dick? 

MOSELLE.     By  inducing  daddy  to  find  the  money. 

SILAS.     Oh!   Dick's  in  a  scrape  ? 

MOSELLE.  Yes;  and  twenty  thousand  dollars  will  set 
him  free.  Daddy  has  it. 

SILAS  (aside).  'So  daddy's  a  big  bonanza,  as  well  as  a  big- 
amist. 

MOSELLE.  You  see,  Dick's  accused  of  forgery;  but  he's 
innocent.  A  detective  has  secured  him,  and  wi'll  take  him 
back  to-day,  unless  the  money  is  found  to  reimburse  the 
bank  with 'what  Richard  Fairlee  is  supposed  to  have  de- 
frauded it. 

SILAS.     Richard  Fairlee?     I've  heard  that  name  before. 

MOSELLE.     Alice  Fairlee's  brother. 

SILAS  (aside).  Hearings !  Another  tribe.  Richard!  — 
Ah  !  I  have  it. 

(Enter  Wix-KYE,  R.  I  E.,  with  pail  and  brush.) 

Wix-KYE.     All  time  walkee,  paintee  tlee,  paintee  lock  — 

SILAS.  Ah,  the  thief!  Give  me  that  paint.  (Runs  at 
Wix-KYE,  with  outstretched  arm.  Wix-KvE  runs  under  it, 
and  up  c.) 

Wix-KYE.  Not  muchee.  My  can  go  all  ligh'.  Melican 
man  chin-chin  girly.  Chinaman  look  out  for  paintee.  (Exit 
up  run.) 

SILAS.  Stop,  I  say!  He's  off,  and  I'm  after  him.  (Runs 
up  and  turns.)  I'll  look  out  for  Dick  by  and  by.  Just  now 
I  must  look  out  for  paint.  (Exit.) 

MOSELLE.     Ha,  ha,  ha!  you'll  have  a  long  chase. 
(Enter  AcxES,ymw  cabin.) 

AGXES.  Moselle,  how  can  you  laugh  when  this  very  day 
Dick  leaves  us  ? 

MOSELLE.  He's  not  gone  yet;  and  just  as  surely  as  I 
believe  in  his  innocence,  just  so  sure  am  I  that  something 
will  prevent  his  departure.  Tom  Carew  has  not  been  seen 
this  morning,  and  he's  not  the  man  to  desert  a  friend.  De- 
pend upon  it,  he  is  working  for  his  release  from  that  horrid 
detective. 

(Enter  JERDEX,/;W;/  cabin.) 

JERDEX.  Meaning  me.  Thanks  for  your  complimentary 
notice,  and  a  thousand  thanks  for  the  hospitality  which  hus 


48  .  THE    LOST    MINE. 

given  my  prisoner  and  myself  a  good  night's  rest  and  a 
hearty  breakfast.  (Crosses  to  R.)  Mr.  Fairlee  is  packing 
up,  and  in  a  few  moments  you  will  be  rid  of  us. 

MOSELLE.  Dick  packing  up  ?  I'll  stop  that.  (Exit  into 
cabin.} 

JERDEN.  Miss  Fairlee,  you  accompany  your  brother,  of 
course  ? 

AGNES.     No,  sir :  at  his  request  I  remain  here. 

JERDEN.  You  remain  ?  impossible  !  You  will  not  suffer 
your  brother  to  meet  his  trial  without  you  by  his  side  to 
comfort  him  ?  . 

AGNES.     If  he  wishes  it,  yes. 

JERDEN.     But  this  is  unnatural,  heartless  — 

AGNES.     Sir? 

JERDEN.  I  beg  your  pardon ;  but  your  presence  in  New 
York  would  aid  him  greatly  in  establishing  his  innocence. 

AGNES.     Ah  !  you  believe  he  is  innocent  ? 

JERDEN.     Return  with  us,  and  I  will  prove  him  so. 

AGNES.     Who  are  you  ? 

JERDEN.  One  who  has  long  loved  you,  —  who,  though  a 
detective,  has  wealth  and  power  to  set  your  brother  free,  and 
surround  you  with  every  luxury. 

AGNES.  Why,  this  is  madness.  I  know  you  not  but  as 
one  to  be  despised,  a  man-hunter  and  a  thief-taker. 

JERDEN.     Nay,  but  I  can  explain  — 

AGNES.  Nothing  to  satisfy  me  that  you  are  not  a  base 
wretch  seeking  to  profit  by  the  anxiety  of  a  sister.  I 
remain  here. 

JERDEN.  Go  you  must  and  shall,  even  if  I  have  to  arrest 
you  as  the  accomplice  of  your  brother. 

AGNES.  You  would  not  dare.  I  have  only  to  raise  my 
voice,  to  bring  to  my  side  a  score  of  manly  fellows,  who 
would  swing  you  from  a  tree,  and  free  your  prisoner.  Here 
law  is  justice,  and  war  on  women  a  crime. 

JERDEN.  And  yet  I  dare.  Your  flight  so  soon  after  your 
brother,  your  being  found  here  together,  are  strong  proof  of 
your  complicity  in  the  crime. 

AGNES.     Another  word,  and  I  call. 

(JURE  creeps  on  from  R.  2  E.) 

JERDEN  (seizes  her  wrist}.  Silence,  or —  (Puts  his  hand 
round  to  his  hip.  JURE  creeps  close  to  him,  and,  as  his  hand 
comes  round,  pulls  pistol  out  of  JERDEN'S  pocket,  and  puts 
it  over  his  shoulder,  pointing  to  his  nose.} 


THE    LOST    MINE.  49 

JUBE.     Was  you  lookin'  fer  dis  yer,  boss  ? 

JERDEN  (backing  to  c.).     Fool !  give  me  that  pistol. 

JUBE.  Yas,  indeed,  when  Gabriel  blows  his  trumpet  in  de 
mornin',  but  not  dis  year  morning.  (Shouts.)  Dandy  Dick, 
dandy  Dick,  now's  yer  chance  :  hoof  it,  hoof  it ! 

'  (Enter  DICK  from  cabin,  followed  by  MOSELLE.) 

DICK.     What's  the  matter,  Jube  ? 

JUBE.  Got  de  bead  on  de  detect.  Now's  yer  chance : 
hoof  it. 

DICK  (crosses  to  JUBE,  and  takes  the  pistol).  Enough  of 
this.  I  go  with  Jerden.  (Gives  pistol  to  JERDEN.)  Take 
your  pistol.  I  might  change  my  mind,  and  then  you  would 
need  it. 

JUBE.  Dat's  jes'  fool  business.  Put  your  mouf  right 
into  der  lion's  head. 

JERDEX.     'Tis  time  we  were  moving. 

DICK.  All  right !  I'll  be  ready  in  a  moment.  (Crosses  to 
L.)  Good-by,  Moselle. 

MOSELLE  (throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck).  No,  no: 
you  must  not.  Where's  daddy?  where's  Tom?  Call  the 
boys,  Jube. 

(Enter  VERMONT  R.  2  E.) 

VERMONT.     What's  the  trouble,  little  one  ? 

MOSELLE  (crossing  to  him).  O  daddy !  you  will  not  let 
Dick  be  carried  to  prison  ? 

VERMONT.     How  am  I  to  help  it  ? 

MOSELLE.     The  money,  daddy  ! 

VERMONT.  What!  twenty  thou —  No.  No:  I'd  wil- 
lingly chip  in. 

JUBE.     Yas,  indeed,  we'll  all  chip  in. 

VERMONT.     But  we  can't  raise  that  amount  of  dust. 
(ToM  comes  down   run  with  a   rusty  old  pickaxe  on  his 

shoulder,  and  a  piece  of  canvas  grasped  by  four  corners 

in  his  right  hand.) 

TOM.     Then,  call  on  me.     (Stops  on  platform.) 

MOSELLE.     Tom ! 

TOM.  Dick,  you're  free.  Look  there  !  (Throws  canvas 
down  on  stage  :  it  opens,  showing  a  mass  of  dirt,  and  nuggets 
of  gold.) 

DICK.     Gold! 

JUBE  (runs  up,  and  picks  up  a  nugget).  Look  at  dar, 
look  at  dar ! 


J 


50  THE    LOST    MINE. 

VERMONT.    What  have  you  struck,  Tom  ? 

TOM.  What  for  ten  long  years  has  been  to  us  a  legend,  — 
the  lost  mine  of  Nevada.  See  !  here's  the  very  pick  he  left 
in  the  hole.  Detective,  I  cover  your  offer,  and  take  your 
man. 

JERDEN.     Not  with  stolen  gold. 

TOM  (comes  down  L.).     Stolen  ? 

JERDEN.  Ay,  stolen.  You  have  jumped  another  man's 
claim.  For  proof,  you  bring  his  pick  left  in  the  mine.  Its 
owner  still  lives. 

TOM.  Yes ;  and  here  he  is  (NEVADA  comes  down  run 
slowly],  the  richest  miner  in  all  Nevada. 

NEVADA  (on  platform}.  That's  me,  boys,  that's  me  ;  but 
it's  all  locked  up.  Ah  !  if  I  could  only  find  the  key.  You 
should  dig  no  more,  boys.  You  should  live  in  palaces,  dine 
off  gold.  Ah,  gold,  gold  !  Shall  I  —  (Sees  gold  on  stage.} 
What's  that  ? 

TOM.  That's  fruit,  —  golden  fruit,  dug  right  out  of  your 
garden,  Nevada.  Your  mine  is  found. 

NEVADA.    No,  no:  I've  been  up  the  ravine  three  miles  — 

TOM.     So  have  I. 

VERMONT.     Then  climbed  the  bowlders  — 

TOM.     To  where  the  giant  lies  across  the  stream  — 

NEVADA.  Over  it  to  the  gorge  a  mile  beyond ;  then  to 
the  right  —  to  the  left,  and,  and  — 

TOM.     There's  where  you   missed   it.     Had  you   turned 
back  five  rods,  you  would  have  found  a  clump  of  bushes 
hiding  the   gorge  below;   and  there  lifting  your  eyes,  you 
would  have  seen  on  a  bowlder  high  up,  a  sign  — 
(Enter  on  run,  SILAS.) 

SILAS.     Busted's  Balm,  you  bet ! 

TOM.  Right,  stranger.  You  gave  me  the  clew.  Where 
you  fell,  there  is  the  old  mine.  Do  you  hear,  Nevada?  your 
mine. 

NEVADA.  My  mine,  my —  Now,  Tom,  don't  trifle  with 
the  old  man.  You  could  not  have  found  what  I  all  these 
years  have  sought  in  vain.  No,  no. 

TOM.     Nevada,  do  you  know  this  ?     (Showing  pick} 

NEVADA  (takes  pick}.  Why,  Tom,  Tom,  this  is  mine,  — 
my  old  pick  !  Where  did  you  find  it  ? 

TOM.  Where  you  left  it.  Old  man,  look  at  me.  Did  I 
ever  deceive  you  ?, 


THE    LOST    MINE.  51 

NEVADA.  It  is  my  old  pick  (hugs  if),  and  that's  my  gold. 
(Comes  down.}  Let  me  touch  it.  (TOM  takes  up  a  nugget, 
and  hands  it  to  him .)  Ah,  I  feel  it  now,  the  gold  for  which 
I  slaved  !  Ah  !  you  have  embittered  my  life,  rich  as  you  are. 
You  might  have  blessed  me  had  you  come»sooner;  but  now, 
now  (throws  down  the  gola},  O  Tom,  Tom!  I'd  give  it  all 
fortme  sight  of  the  wife  and  little  one.  (Sobs,  and  falls  on 
TOM'S  neck.} 

TOM.  Ah,  tears !  that's  good :  he's  all  right.  Take  him 
in,  Mosey.  (MOSELLE  lead's  NEVADA  into  cabin.}  Now, 
you  wait,  Jerden,  and  you'll  find  the  old  man  ready  to  treat 
with  you  for  Dick's  freedom. 

JERDEX.  I  decline  to  treat  with  him  or  you.  I  shall  take 
my  prisoner,  Richard  Fairlee. 

SILAS  (comes  down}.     What  name  ? 

JERDEN.     Richard  Fairlee,  forger. 

SILAS.  Ah,  forger!  I  thought  I  knew  something  about 
him. 

JERDEN.    Well,  what  do  you  know? 

SILAS.  That  he  is  innocent.  For  further  particulars  — 
Where's  my  paint  ? 

Wix-KYE  (outside}.  Heap  gone  uppee.  (Enters  down 
run,  handle  of  pail  in  his  hand,  paint  on  his  face  and  on  his 
dress.}  Paintee  lock,  grizzley  stick  urn  head  out,  wantee 
paint  too,  snatchee  pail,  me  scootee.  (Holds  up  handle.} 
Savem  piecee. 

SILAS.  Ah!  (Snatches  handle.}  You've  saved  enough. 
(Tears  paper  from  handle.}  Here  it  is. 

ALL.    What  ? 

SILAS.  The  latest  add  of  the  balm—  (All groan.}  I'll 
give  you  a  dose.  Listen!  (Reads.}  " Wonderful  discovery. 
The  firm  of  Gorden,  Green,  &  Co.  have  obtained  convin- 
cing proof  that  the  forgery  perpetrated  a  year  ago  was  not 
the  act  of  their  clerk,  Richard  Fairlee,  but  was  a  shrewd 
plot  concocted  by  one  Stephen  Corliss,  for  the  ruin  of  that 
young  man." 

DICK.     The  truth  at  last ! 

AGNES  (takes  his  hand}.     Good  news,  brother! 

JERDEN  (aside}.     Discovered. 

SILAS.  Hold  on  :  there's  something  more.  (Reads.} 
"  Remarkable  as  this  is,  it  is  nothing  compared  to  the  won- 
derful discovery,  Busted's  Balm."  (General groan.}  "For 
further  particulars  see  "  — 


52  THE    LOST    MINE. 

WiN-KYE.     Topside  locks,  all  ligh',  John. 

SILAS.     Mr.  Fairlee,  you've  had  a  close  shave. 

WiN-KYE.  Catchee  man  close  shabe  too.  No  lazor,  no 
soapee  :  see  !  (With  a  quick  movement  snatches  beard  from 
JERDEN.) 

DICK.     Stephen  Corliss  ! 

AGNES.     That  man ! 

JERDEN.  Yes,  that  man.  Agnes  Fairlee,  to  win  you  I 
have  plotted.  I  have  failed,  and. now  await  my  sentence. 

TOM.  I  told  you  miner  law  was  swift  and  sure.  (JuBE 
creeps  up  run,  and  crouches  behind  masking  rocks.} 

JERDEN.  I  understand,  —  a  rope,  a  tree,  and  murder. 
(Draws  pistol.}  Not  for  me.  (Dashes  up  run.  JUBE  rises 
before  him?) 

JUBE  (wrests  pistol  from  him}.  Dis  is  a  private  way, 
dangerous  passing. 

JERDEN.  Curse  the  luck!  (Turns,  and  runs  offi*.  behind 
cabin.} 

VERMONT.     Not  that  way,  man. 

TOM.     The  ledge  !  the  ledge  ! 

JUBE.  Don't  you  do  it.  Ah  !  he's  gone  ober  de  ledge, 
down  three  hundred  feet.  Good-by,  detect!  (Comes  down?) 

AGNE3.     What  a  horrible  fate  ! 

TOM.     Better  that  than  the  tree. 

VERMONT  (comes  c.,  and  takes  up  pick}.  This  is  the  pick 
that  opened  Nevada's  bonanza.  Why,  it's  little  better  than 
—  What's  this?  a  name  cut  into  it?  (Looks  at  it  closely?) 
Ah  (drops  it  agitated),  widder,  widder !  (Enter  MOTHER 
from  cabin?) 

MOTHER.     What  is  it,  Vermont  ? 

VERMONT  (seizes  her  by  wrist,  and  leads  her  R.).  Widder, 
it's  come,  it's  come.  My  old  head  couldn't  strike  it,  but 
Tom  has, — the  name. 

WIDOW.     What  name  ? 

VERMONT.  A  name  long  forgotten,  but  now  brought  to 
light,  —  John  Murdock. 

(Enter  NEVADA  from  cabin  followed  by  MOSELLE.) 

NEVADA.     Who  called  my  name  ? 

VERMONT.     Your  wife. 

NEVADA.     My  wife? 

VERMONT.  Yes :  at  the  door  of  my  ranch  in  Goblin 
Gulch  ten  years  ago,  searching  for  you,  with  her  child  in  her 
arms. 


THE    LOST    MINE.  53 

NEVADA.     My  wife  ?  where  is  she  ? 

VERMONT  (takes  off  his  hat}.     In  heaven. 

NEVADA  (covers  his  face).     My  poor  wife. 

VERMONT.  She  couldn't  find  her  husband,  so  she  went 
home  to  her  father.  But  the  child  — 

NEVADA.     Ah,  the  child  !  my  little  Lisa. 

VERMONT  (aside).  Lisa!  Now,  there's  a  name;  and  I 
went  and  called  her  Moses. 

MOSELLE.  Lisa,  Lisa!  Why,  somebody  called  me  by 
that  name  long,  long  ago. 

NEVADA.     No :  that  was  my  child's  name. 

VERMONT.  Right,  Nevada :  your  child  left  in  my  arms  ; 
your  child  that  has  been  tenderly  cared  for,  who  is  the  luck 
of  this  camp.  (Crosses,  and  takes  MOSELLE'S  hand} 

TOM  and  JUBE.     Our  Mosey ! 

VERMONT.     Is  — 

NEVADA.     My  child ! 

VERMONT.     Lisa  Murdock.     (Passes  her  to  C.) 

MOSELLE.     My  father,  you  — 

NEVADA  (clasping  her  in  his  arms}.     Mine,  mine  at  last. 

VERMONT  (crosses  to  MOTHER).     Widder  ! 

MOTHER.     Vermont!     (They  fall  into  each  other's  arms} 

SILAS  (astonished}.  Deacon  Steele  !  (VERMONT,  in  con- 
fusion, drops  the  WIDOW  ;  TOM,  DICK,  AGNES,  JUBE,  and 
YVix-KYE  go  C.,  and  shake  hands  with  NEVADA  and 
MOSELLE.  SILAS  beckons  VERMONT  down  c.) 

SILAS.     Ain't  you  rather  going  it  with  the  widow? 

VERMONT.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

SILAS.  Well,  you  see,  I'm  not  used  to  the  customs  of 
this  part  of  the  country;  and  I  don't  know  how  to  break  it 
to  mother. 

VERMONT.     Break  what? 

SILAS.  This  new  departure  of  yours.  By  the  way,  how 
many  have  you  ? 

VERMONT.     How  many  what? 

SILAS.  Well,  it's  rather  a  delicate  question  for  a  son  to 
ask  his  father;  but  how  many  wives  have  you? 

VERMONT.  Silas  Steele,  are  you  ma'd?  One, — your 
mother. 

SILAS.  Oh !  then  the  widow  and  Abigail  and  the  boys 
and  the  kid  — 

VERMONT.     Well,  what  of  them  ? 


54  THE    LOST    MINE. 

SILAS.     Are  they  relatives  of  yours? 

VERMONT.  I  have  but  one  relative  in  this  part  of  the 
country,  and  he  ceems  to  be  little  better  than  a  fool. 

SILAS.  Mother  says  he  takes  after  his  dad.  (Aside.)  I 
guess-  the  old  gent's  all  right,  after  all. 

VERMONT.  Look  here,  Silas.  (Leads  hi?n  down  c.) 
Where  did  you  learn  that  trip  by  which  you  threw  me  last 
night  ? 

SILAS.  Oh !  from  Parson  Bunker.  Remember  the  par- 
son, don't  you  ? 

VERMONT  (aside).     I  thought  so,  —  the  wrestling  angel. 

SILAS.  Cold  day  for  him  when  he  gave  that  away,  for  I 
threw  him  every  time  after  that. 

VERMONT  (excited).     What!  you  threw  the  parson? 

SILAS.     Just  as  easy  as  1  laid  you. 

VERMONT  (excitedly  shakes  his  hand).  Silas,  I'm  proud 
of  you.  Look  here,  widder,  Nevad-a,  Tom,  everybody,  this 
is  my  son  from  Vermont.  Look  at  him:  he  can  throw  the 
parson,  the  wrestling  angel.  Look  at  him. 

MOTHER.     Your  son?  then,  you  are  married? 

VERMONT.  Well,  I  hope  so.  I'm  going  home  to  see 
Hannah,  and  make  up  with  the  parson,  after  I've  had  a  shy 
at  his"  shins  with  the  angel  trip. 

MOSELLE.     And  leave  me,  daddy  ? 

VERMONT.  Ah,  little  one,  that  will  be  hard  !  but  Nevada 
has  jumped  my  claim  with  a  prior  claim.  In  you  he's  found 
his  child. 

NEVADA.  Yours  and  mine,  Vermont.  You  must  never 
forget,  that,  when  I  deserted  her  for  love  of  gold,  you  took 
her  to  your  heart. 

VERMONT.  I  couldn't  help  it.  Blamed  if  the  little  thing 
didn't  crawl  right  in,  and  nestle,  as  if  she  belonged  there. 

MOSELLE.  And  it  was  such  a  warm  nest,  I  hope  I  shall 
never  be  turned  out  of  it. 

VERMONT.     Never,  you  bet. 

NEVADA.  You  shall  go  home  well  fixed.  The  old  mine 
shall  be  made  to  give  up  its  treasures.  Henceforth  it  shall 
be  known  as  the  Carew  and  Murdock  mine. 

TOM.     No,  no,  Nevada:  I  have  no  right  — 

NEVADA  (takes  his  hand).  We  must  be  partners;  for 
what  I  lost,  you  found.  In  our  good  fortune  all  shall  share. 

DICK  (takes  MOSELLE'S  hand).  Then,  I'll  take  mine 
here. 


THE    LOST    MINE.  55 

NEVADA.     And  rob  me  of  the  jewel  I  prize  the  most  ? 

MOSELLE.     Not  rob,  father,  only  give  it  a  new  setting. 

DICK.     In  my  heart. 

TOM.  You  can  trust  him,  Nevada;  and  he's  had  such 
bad  luck,  he  deserves  a  nugget. 

MOSELLE.  Thank  you,  Tom.  One  of  these  days  I'll 
speak  a  good  word  for  you  with  his  sister. 

TOM.     Do  I  need  it,  Agnes  ? 

AGNES  (gives  her  hand}.     Not  with  me,  Tom. 

JUBE  (R.).  Golly!  see 'em  parin' off.  Nex'  couple,  slami- 
nade.  Say,  tender  hoof,  whar's_>w/r  pardner? 

SILAS  (R.).  There  don't  seem  enough  to  go  round;  but 
I'm  on  the  lookout  — 

WIX-KYE.  Lookee  out  for  paint.  See  small  billies.  All, 
ligh'. 

VERMONT  (points  to  gold}.  Nevada,  shall  I  gather  up  the 
dust  for  you  ? 

NEVADA.  No:  scatter  it  among  the  boys.  It  is  dust, 
indeed,  no  longer  to  be  prized  by  me,  but  for  the  richer 
treasure  it  has  disclosed  (to  MOSELLE),  —  you,  my  darling. 
(Puts  arm  about  MOSELLE.) 

MOSELLE.  O  father,  the  clouds  are  lifting!  You  are 
coming  out  of  the  darkness. 

NEVADA.  Yes,  little  one;  and  in  the  new  light  of  your 
eyes,  I  see  tokens  of  the  wealth  I  abandoned  for  a  phantom. 
In  you  I  find  — 

VERMONT  (takes  NEVADA'S  hand}.    A  nugget,  you  bet ! 

NEVADA.     Yes,  the  jewel  of  my  lost  mine. 

SITUATIONS. 

NEVADA  c.,  clasping  MOSELLE   with   left  arm,   his  right 
hand  in  that  of  VERMONT.     MOTHER  next  VERMONT  R., 
SILAS  R.,  JUBE  extreme  R.  ;  DICK  next  MOSELLE  L.,  TOM 
.YE  extreme 

CURTAIN. 


THE  GLOBE   DRAMA. 


Price,  25  Cents  eatli. 


1.  COUPON  BONDS.     A   Drama  in  Four  Acts.    By  J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE. 

Dramatised  from  the  story  of  that  name.  Seven  male,  three  female 
characters.  Three  scenes.  Modern  costumes.  Easily  produced. 

2.  UNDER  A  VEIL.    A  Comedietta  in  One  Act.     By  SIR  RAXDALL  ROBERTS, 

Bart.  Two  male,  three  female  characters.  Scene,  interior.  Double  room. 
Time  in  representation,  thirty  minutes. 

3.  CLASS  DAY.    A  Farce  in  One  Act.    By  Dr.  FRANCIS   A.  HARRIS.    Four 

male,  three  female  characters.  Scene,  interior.  Played  at  Harvard  whh 
great  success. 

4.  BETTER  THAN  GOLD.    A  Drama   in  Four  Acts.      By    GEORGE    M. 

BAKER.  Five  male,  four  female  characters.  One  interior;  same  for  the 
four  acts. 

5.  MRS.    WAI/THROP'S    BACHELORS.      A    Comedy    in    Three    Acts. 

Translated  and  adapted  from  the  German  of  Btntdix.  By  GEORGE  M. 
BAKER  and  WILLAHD  SMALL.  ("  Our  Bachelors "  and  "Mrs.  Walthrop's 
Boarders"  were  translated  from  the  same.) 

6.  OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND.    A  Comedy  in  Four  Acts.    Dramatised  from 

the  novel  by  Charles  Dickens.  By  HARRIET  R.  SHATTUCK.  Four  male, 
three  female  characters. 

7.  REBECCA'S    TRIUMPH.    A  Drama  in  Three  Acts.    By  GEORGE  M. 

BAKER.  (For  female  characters  only.)  Sixteen  characters".  Scenes  are : 
Act  1,  kitchen.  Act  2,  woods.  Act  3,  parlor.  Written  at  the  request  of 
the  "D.O.C.  Cooking  Club,"  of  Chicago, -who  took  "Among  the  Breakers" 
as  a  model. 

8.  APPLES.    Comedy  in  One  Act  from  Blackwood's  Magazine.    One  male  two 

female  characters. 

9.  BABIE.    Comedy  in  Three  Acts.    Translated  from  the  French  of  Emile  de 

Xajac  and  Alfred  Hennquin,  by  F.  E.  CHASE.  Six  male,  five  female 
characters. 

10.  A  PERSONAL  MATTER.    Comedy  in  One  Act.    By  F.  E.  CHASE.    Two 

male,  and  two  female  characters. 

11.  COMRADES.    A  Drama  in  Three  Acts.    By  GEORGE  M.  BAKER.    Four 

male,  three  female  characters.  Scene,  interior.  Costumes  modern. 
Always  successful. 

12.  SNOW-BOUND.     A  Mus-ical  and  Dramatic  Entertainment.    By  GEORGE  M. 

BAKER.  For  three  male  and  one  female  characters;  requires  some  scenery, 
but  can  be  easily  produced.  Introduces  tongs,  recitations,  and  an  original 
Burlesque,  "Alonzo  the  Brave  aud  the  Fair  Imogene."  Time,  two  hours. 

13.  BON-BONS.     A  Musical   and    Dramatic  Entertainment-      By   GEORGE   M. 

BAKER.  For  four  performers:  three  male,  one  female.  Recuires  litile 
scenery;  introduc.s  pongs,  recitations,  and  an  original  Burles'que,  'The 
Paint  Bang."  Time  in  representation,  two  hours. 

14.  PAST  REDEMPTION.     A   New   Temperance  Drama  in  Four  Acto.    By 

GEORGE  M.  BAKER.  Nine  male,  and  four  fcmal<:  characters,  and  sup.  r- 
numerarics.  Scenery  :  three  interiors,  ono  exterior. 

15.  NEVADA;  or.  The  Lost  Mine.    Drama,  in  Three  Acts.    By  GEORGE  M. 

BAKER.  Eis-lit  male,  three  female  characters.  Scenery,  exterior  and  in- 
terior of  a  Miner's  Cabin  in  Nevada.  Time,  about  two  hours. 

16.  POISON.    A  Farce,  as  acted  by  the  Hasty  Pudding  Club  of  Harvard  College 

with  great  success.  Four  male,  three  female  characters.  Time,  thirty 
minutes. 

G-EORGKE  M.  BAKER  <fc  CO., 

4=7  Franklin  Street. 


fcrf 


BY    GEORGE    M.    BAKER, 

Author  of  "Amateur  Dramas,"  "  The  Mimic  Stage?  "The  Social  Stage?  "  The  Drawi, 
Room  Stage"  "  Handy  Dramas"  "  The  Exhibition  Drama"  "A  Baktr's  Dozen,"  etc 
Titles  in  this  Type  are  New  Plays. 
Titles  in  this  Type  are  Temperance  Plai/s. 


DRAMAS. 

In  Four  Acts. 

Better  Than  Gold.     7  male,  4  female 
char 25 

In  Three  Acts. 

Our  Folks.    6  male,  5  female  char.  .     .     i ; 
The  Flower  of  the  Family.    5 

male,  3  female  char «  .   .     ij 

ENLISTED  FOR  THE  WAR.  7  male,  3  fe- 
male characters 13 

MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER.  5  male,  3  fe- 
male char 15 

The  Little  JBrown  Jug,     $  male,  3 

female  char. 15 

/;/  Tivu  Acts. 

Above  the  Clouds,  7  male,  3  female 
characters 15 

One  Hundred  Years  Ago.  7  male, 
4  female  chnr 15 

AMONG  THE  BREAKERS.  6  male,  4  fcraale 
char 15 

BREAD  ON  THE  WATERS.  5  male.  3  female 
char. 15 

DOWN  BY  THR  SEA.  6  male,  3  female 
char 15 

ONCE  ON  A  TIME.     4  male,  ?  femde char.     15 

The  Last  Loaf.     5  male,  3  female  char.     15 
In  One  Act. 

STAND  BY  THE  FLAG.     5  ma1"  char.  t  .      15 

The  Tempter.    3  male,  i  female  char.     15 

COMEDIES  AND  FAECES. 

A  Mysterious  Disappearance.    4 

ma  10,    3  female  char 15 

Paddle  'Your  Own.  Canoe.    7male, 

3  female  char. :S 

A.  Drop  too  Much.  4  male,  2  female 
characters. 15 

A.  Little  More  Cider.  5  male,  3  fe- 
male char 13 

A  THORN  AMONG  THE  ROSES.  2  male,  6 
female  chnr 15 

NEVER  SAY  DIE.     3  male,   3  female  char.     15 

SEEING  THE  ELEPHANT.  6  male,  3  female 
char , 

THE  BOSTON'  DIP.     4  male,  3  female  chrtr.     15 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  DUBLIN.  6  male,  4  fe- 
male char *  15 

THIRTY  MINUTES    FOR    REFRESHMENTS. 

4  rn;ile.  3  f:m  ile  clur 15 

We're  <tll  Teetotalers.     4  male,  2  fe- 
male char 15 

Male  Characters  Only. 

A  CLOSE  SHAVE.    6  char 15 

A  PUBLIC  BENEFACTOR.     6  char.  ....  15 

A  SEA  OF  TROUBLES.     8  char 15 


COMEDIES,  Sec.,  continued. 

Male  Characters  Only. 
A  TENDER  ATTACHMENT.    7  char.  .    .    . 

COALS  OF  FIRE.    6  char.    „ 

FREEDOM  OF  THE  PRESS.  8  char.  .  .  . 
Shall  Our  Mothers  Vote  ?  n  char 
GENTLEMEN  OF  THE  JURY  12  char.  -  . 
HUMORS  OF  THE  STRIKE.  8  char.  .  . 
MY  UNCLE  THE  CAPTAIN.  6  char.  .  . 
NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN.  6  char.  . 

THE  GREAT  ELIXIR.     9  char 

THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC.    5  char 

The  Man  with  the  Demijohn.  4 
char.  .  .  ....... 

THE    RUNAWAYS     4  char 

THE  THIEF  OF  TIME.  6  char.  .  .  . 
WANTED,  A  MALE  COOK.  4  char.  ,  .  • 

Female  Characters  (.  "nfy 
A  LOVE  OF  A  BONNET.     5  cha/.    . 

A  PRECIOUS  PICKLE.     6  char 

No  CURE  NO  PAY.     7  char.    ..... 

THE  CHAMPION  OF  HER  SEX.  8  char.  . 
THE  GREATEST  PLAGUE  IN  LIFE.  8  cha. 

THE  GRECIAN  BEND.     7  char 

THE  RED  CHIGNON.  6  char.  .... 
USING  THE  WEED.  7  char.  ....  . 

ALLEGORIES. 

Arranged  for  lilusic  and  Tableaux. 

LIGHTHEAKT'S  PILGRIMAGE.  8  female 
char 

THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  BEES.  9  female 
char. 

THE  SCULPTOR'S  TRIUMPH,  i  male,  4  fe- 
male char 

THR  TOURNAMENT  OF  TDYLCOURT.  10 
female  char. 

THF  'VAR  OF  THE  ROSKS.     8  female  char. 

MUSICAL  AND  DEAMATIC. 

AN  ORIGINAL  IDEA,  i  male,  i  female 
char,  . 

BONBONS  ;  OR,  THE  PAINT  KING.  6  male, 
i  female  char 

CAPULETTA  ;  CR,  ROMEO  AND  JULIET 
RESTORED.  3  male,  i  female  char.  . 

SANTA  CLAUS'  FROLICS 

SNOW-BOUND;  OR,  ALONZO  THE  BRAVE 
AND  THE  FAIR  IMOGENS.  3  male,  i 
female  char 

THE  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  OF  THE  OLD 
WOMAN  WHO  LIVED  IN  A  SHOE.  .  . 

THE  PEDLER  OF  VERY  NICE.  7  male 
char 

THE  SEVEN  AGES.  A  Tableau  Entertain- 
ment. Numerous  male  and  female  char. 

Too  LATE  FOR  THK  TRAIN.     2  male  char. 

THK  VISIONS  OF  FREEDOM,  n  female 
char. 


Geo.  M.  Baker  &  Ci,  47  Franklin  St.  Boston 


YB   74557 


M84448 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


